


Fragile

by Tor_Raptor



Series: Fragile [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cancer, Caring John, Caring Lestrade, Chemotherapy, Doctors, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Leukaemia, Major Illness, Medical, Mind Palace, Sherlock Whump, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic, distressed John, nobody is okay, radiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-04-07 04:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 160,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14072844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tor_Raptor/pseuds/Tor_Raptor
Summary: Sherlock gets sick, not 'he'll recover in a few days' sick, but hospitalised for a long time sick. His friends are all there to help him, but he is Sherlock, he doesn't want or need their help.A continuation of a work written (and unfinished) by gemstone1234





	1. I'm Fine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fragile](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/366027) by gemstone1234. 



> This story required quite a bit of disclaimer, you're welcome to skip these notes if you really don't care. As stated in the summary, this is a continuation of a work that was unfortunately abandoned by its original author. The first 19 chapters of this story were not written by me (all credit goes to the amazing gemstone1234) and I am not attempting to take credit for them. I am reposting them along with the chapters I've added so that any new readers won't have to look elsewhere for the complete story. All I did with them was read through and fix glaring spelling errors like any beta reader would. 
> 
> Upon first reading the story, I was devastated that it was left unresolved. I've always loved medical hurt/comfort stories, but hadn't come up with any solid ideas for a plot to write one myself. This is a great stepping-stone for me into a realm I've wanted to dive into for a very long time. I'm certain I wrote it differently than gemstone1234 intended; I cannot read minds. But I hope it is still enjoyable and will provide readers with some sort of catharsis. If somehow gemstone sees this, I hope they're honoured that someone loved their story enough to continue it. I quite literally wrote fanfiction about fanfiction.

The dark and thunderous skies rolled ominously overhead, intimidating and threatening. The wind and the rain drove almost everyone off the street, either into passing taxis or nearby shops; nobody wanted to be out in weather such as this. John had the TV turned up louder than usual so he could hear it over the rain as it pounded relentlessly against the glass. The rain drops shot powerfully into the window, leaving large wet splodges in their wake, which soon began to pour down the glass like a raging torrent.

John sat with the fire blazing, watching the harsh British weather more than he was the TV. In 221B he was safe and dry and he was reassured by the fact that he did not have to leave the flat that evening; there was no reason for him to venture into the treacherous weather. There wasn't even a risk of him getting dragged out either by a certain consulting detective; he was out doing… something. John didn't know what. There was probably a case on and John simply hadn't arrived back to the flat in time for Sherlock to drag him out—not that he was complaining. The doctor felt a twinge of worry as he thought of his friend being outside; hopefully he had the common sense to seek some sort of shelter. At this thought John shook his head; Sherlock was a grown man and perfectly capable of looking after himself. At any rate, if it was a case he was on that hadn't allowed him to wait for John, Lestrade was probably there, and he'd make sure the idiot didn't do anything truly stupid and fool-hardy.

~0~

For the next few days it didn't seem to stop raining, usually it was just drizzling, but the occasional downpour would hit the streets of London, chasing everyone inside. John managed to just escape such a downpour, exiting the taxi and dashing to the door of 221B just as it started. Even in the few seconds he had been out in it his hair was soaked and the water was rolling off his jacket. Unlike Sherlock, he did not have the desire to get soaked to the skin; how his friend had managed to stay out in weather like that for several hours was beyond him. Even if it had been an interesting case as he had claimed when he entered the flat looking more like a drowned rat than an actual human being, surely there were only so many deductions to be made off a dead body once all the evidence had been washed away, a process that would not have taken that long.

Now that he thought about it, John realised that he had not actually seen or heard from his flatmate in a couple of days. This wasn't particularly unusual in itself, his friend was prone to his bouts of silence especially after a case, but John had the nagging sensation that he should check on the man. Wearily he trudged up the stairs, stripping his jacket off as he went and brushing some of the excess water off it. Out of habit he went and put the kettle on before tentatively knocking at the detective's door. "Sherlock, are you alive?" he asked jokily but when he received a groan in reply he grew slightly more concerned. "Sherlock!" he said a little louder this time. "Are you alright mate?"

"Hmm? Yeah, fine," came the reply which sounded more than a little raspy. John wasn't buying it, he was a doctor after all, and not the idiot Sherlock claimed he was.

"I'm coming in," he announced as he opened the door, deciding it wasn't worth waiting for permission since he would not get it.

The room was dim, the only light was that which managed to find its way in through the small window, and even that was mostly blocked by the curtain. Sherlock was lying in bed, his sheets a mess, twisted around him as if he had been fidgeting a lot. He lay on his back, typing away vigorously on his phone. He turned his head towards John, still typing faster than the doctor ever would have been able to even if he was looking whilst he was doing it, and stared at him questioningly. The doctor stared back at him, trying to determine if he was paler than usual or if it was just his imagination. He then remembered how weak Sherlock's voice had been, so perhaps he was sick. But Sherlock didn't get sick—well, of course he got sick, everyone gets sick at some point. But Sherlock and 'ill' just seemed wrong; the two things were incompatible with each other. "I'm going to switch the light on," John stated with hardly any warning.

The sudden light obviously startled the younger man; the phone broke free of his grasp and fell, straight onto his face. Sherlock let out a cry of both pain and surprise whilst John snorted in amusement; it was strange but slightly pleasing to see the normally perfectly composed man make a fool of himself. In response to his friend's laughter Sherlock fixed him with a glare, it didn't scare John (not anymore anyway) but he did calm himself down. He knew that look meant that if he carried on Sherlock would get upset, or his version of upset, which meant he'd be even more angry and demanding than usual.

"Are you alright?" John asked, once again being concerned for his friend.

"Yes, perfectly fine," he replied irritably just before he suppressed a cough, causing his body to convulse violently.

This time it was John's turn to fix Sherlock with a glare. "You shouldn't lie to me about your health Sherlock, it's not good. But having a cold serves you right; you shouldn't have stayed out in that rainstorm for so long."

"Case," was Sherlock's reply, he obviously thought that the discussion was not worthy of his attention.

"Your health is more important that a damn case you know." At this the consulting detective waved his hand in a dismissive fashion, but John knew him well enough to know that it really meant he disagreed with him. "Dammit Sherlock, your health matters you know. When was the last time you ate or drank anything anyway?" As a way of reply a thin hand let go of the phone and gestured down towards a half empty glass of water sitting next to the bed.

John frowned for what felt the hundredth time in a matter of minutes. Was that really all Sherlock had consumed in the past two days? "Sherlock, you need to drink and eat," he said sounding more weary than frustrated. "Do you know what? I'm going to get you a glass of juice, which you will drink, and a cup of tea. Then you will eat whatever I put in front of you. This is non-debatable." And with that John stalked angrily out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

~0~

The door slammed shut, causing Sherlock to wince as pain shot through his head. He closed his eyes to protect them from the bright light, something he had been longing to do ever since John had switched the light on. It was far too bright and it hurt his eyes. Even his phone was on the dimmest setting because the normal screen sent tendrils of pain shooting through his eyes and into his brain. Cracking his eyelids open slightly he stumbled over to his light switch and his room was cast back into glorious darkness and the pain lessened slightly. Slowly he shuffled back across to his bed and literally fell onto it, curling up in the sheets, trying to stave off some of the pain he was feeling.

Lying there in the darkness Sherlock began to drift off, his bed was warm and soft and the darkness was oddly soothing. It seemed to sooth his racing mind, slowing it down, and reducing the throbbing in his head to a dull ache. He sighed contentedly, shuffling down further into the covers. Unfortunately John did not leave him in peace for long; suddenly he barged in, allowing light to burst into the room and Sherlock's headache came back with a vengeance as he was startled from his relaxed state. "Right," John started loudly in his no nonsense tone of voice. "Drink this," he ordered, standing in front of where Sherlock lay, holding a glass of orange juice towards him.

"Go, away," Sherlock mumbled angrily, wishing John would leave. He felt awful and he certainly did not need his friend to see it.

"No, just drink this and I'll leave." The detective weighed his options before pulling himself up into a sitting position, schooling his expression into one of cold indifference as opposed to the grimace which he had been wearing. Knowing John as he did, he was sure the man was lying but his brain was slow and he couldn't think of a quicker way to make him leave.

As soon as the cool liquid touched his lips he realised how thirsty he had been and he downed it, causing John to frown at him. "You should have drunk that more slowly, you could make yourself sick," the doctor scolded. The younger man shrugged, eyeing the slices of toast in John's hand warily. As weird as it sounded the orange juice had left him feeling full and bloated, he wasn't sure he'd be able to have the toast too. He didn't really want it, but he knew there was going to be a debate on the matter. Sherlock shifted in the bed, he most certainly did not like the way John was looking at him, he couldn't place the look but it did make him slightly uncomfortable to be under its scrutiny.

"You can go now John," Sherlock said, hoping desperately he would take the not-so-subtle hint. Unsurprisingly he did not.

"Not until you eat the toast," he ordered, placing the toast down on the chest of drawers next to his bed.

"No, I'm thinking," Sherlock lied irritably. Truth was he felt slightly nauseous and not in the least bit hungry, but he didn't think John would take it as a valid excuse.

The detective looked up and met his friend's eyes, and there was that look again. It looked like pity. John pitied him; this made his blood boil in rage. Without knowing what was going on within the genius's head, John reached forward and pressed the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead, and the man jumped away from the touch and sprang out of bed. He grew impossibly whiter and John was sure he was going to collapse.

"I'm going for a shower," he proclaimed and hurried as fast as he could to the bathroom, cup of tea in hand.

"Sherlock!" John shouted in confusion and concern. All he got in reply was the slam of a door.

~0~

Fifteen minutes later John heard the water in the shower come to a stuttering stop and he pulled himself up out of his armchair to switch on the kettle. He needed to talk to Sherlock and if the man had a mug of tea in his hands he would not be able to run away. As it happened there was no point in even trying. Sherlock emerged a few minutes later, damp curls clinging to the sides of his face and his jacket donned. "Where are you going Sherlock?" the doctor asked carefully, trying to surreptitiously give his friend a once over. The man looked no better than he had before, still pale skinned and exhausted looking, with what looked like a bruise coming up where he had dropped the phone on his face. The only way to truly describe how he was looking was 'like utter crap'. "I made tea," he commented hopefully, Sherlock really should not leave the flat.

"Out," he rasped. "Lestrade," he added before clearing his throat.

"You shouldn't be going out."

"I didn't ask you." The harshness of the comment was somewhat lost by his weak voice.

Turning around he headed down the stairs, leaving John behind staring in concern and frustration for a few moments before he quickly threw the tea down the sink. He grabbed his coat on the way down and was thankful he still had his shoes on because Sherlock was already clambering into a cab. But damn it he was not being left behind, not when his friend was so obviously unwell.

As he clambered into the back of the cab Sherlock glared at him. "I'm sorry Sherlock," John said, not really sure what he was apologising for, all he knew was he had freaked Sherlock out or angered him or something. You could never be totally sure with Sherlock. The detective nodded at him and turned his attention to the window, the atmosphere in the back of the cab was still tense but John felt he had been forgiven. It was usual for Sherlock to ignore someone, it was not usual for him to glare at someone for more than a second unless that person happened to be Anderson or Donovan.

When they arrived at the crime scene Sherlock practically leapt out of the cab and stalked off to find Lestrade or the body, whichever he stumbled upon first, and left John to pay. He slowed his pace as a wave of dizziness came over him, perhaps it was the flu he had, he'd fallen in the shower. Luckily he'd managed to catch himself to make it into a controlled fall so the good doctor hadn't heard but still, that was very unlike him. But John couldn't know, it would pass soon anyway. He didn't want that look of pity or whatever it was again.

Whilst deep in thought he walked straight into Lestrade who jumped around in surprise. "Damn Sherlock, you nearly gave me a heart attack." Sherlock shot him a strange look.

"That is highly improbable," he stated, causing the DI to chuckle briefly before he looked at the younger man more closely.

"Are you alright Sherlock? If you need to go back to the flat that's fine, I can send you the case file once we are done here."

"Oh, don't you start," he commented angrily, forcing himself not to break into a coughing fit. "I'm fine. I've gotten enough of this from John."

"What's that?" John asked as he walked into the room.

"Doesn't matter, where are we?" Sherlock asked, feeling himself swaying and desperately hoping neither of the men in the room did not notice. Thankfully they did not.

"Just in the living room," Lestrade replied, gesturing to a room to their right. He was about to lead Sherlock in when John grabbed his arm to stop him.

"I'll be through soon Sherlock; I just need to talk to Greg for a minute." The detective shrugged his shoulders and walked in, obviously John wanted to talk about his health but he couldn't care less. Now he had something to focus on he was sure he would feel a lot better.

When Sherlock disappeared into the room Lestrade turned to John with his brow furrowed in concern. "Everything alright?" he asked, leaning with his back against the wall and his arms folded.

"Um, I don't know. Sherlock's sick, I'm guessing you noticed that."

"Yeah, he's not as good at hiding it as he thinks he is." John chuckled.

"No, that is true. It was during that case a few days ago, he stayed out in the rain."

"Damn, he didn't did he?" Lestrade asked with his eyes wide. "I lost him when we were out but I thought he had at least an ounce of common sense. Sorry John, I should have kept a closer eye on him."

"No, it's the idiot's own fault. I was just wondering if you noticed anything at all whilst you were on the case, before the rain started. Did you notice anything odd? I want to know if it is just a cold or something I need to be keeping an eye on, not that it'll be an easy job mind, not with him trying to throw me off the trail all the way."

"Well," Lestrade screwed his eyebrows together in concentration as he thought back to the case. "He seemed a bit, I don't know, shaky… No, that's not the right word, he just didn't seem quite right. He couldn't run as fast as usual and he seemed a bit more tired. I just presumed you and he had been working on something and he hadn't eaten for a while, nothing out of the ordinary there."

"No, I suppose not."

"John, don't worry. He doesn't get sick; I've never see him sick before today. Going through withdrawal yes, but not certifiably sick. Man's got a good strong immune system going for him. He'll be over this in a couple of days."

"Everyone gets sick Greg." As if to reinforce his point there was a sudden bang from the other room, the two men looked at each other and rushed in.

~0~

Sherlock closed the door behind him, glad to see Lestrade had the common sense to remove Donovan and Anderson from the vicinity before his arrival. The room was empty apart from him and the corpse. It felt weird that John wasn't at his side but he shrugged the feeling off, not wanting to dwell on it at all.

Woman, mid-thirties, two children, happily married, recently lost her job at a fast food chain. Who would want to murder a happily married woman, a mother, who used to work in a fast food place? And why this house? She had no lover, so that wasn't it; it just didn't make sense. Perhaps this would be a much more interesting case than he had originally thought. He pulled himself up to his full height to look at the room as a whole when his legs suddenly gave out from under him. There was nothing for him to grab onto so he fell with a bang. What the hell was wrong with him? Quickly he pulled himself into a crouching position to make it look like he was examining the body. The position made his knees throb from where he had landed on them but he kept his face blank as the door was thrown open. "Are you alright?" Lestrade proclaimed as he strode over to the younger man, who seemed fascinated with the woman's hands, looking under her rings and examining her fingernails.

"Yes, fine, why?" he demanded, not once taking his eyes from the dead woman in case he gave any unintentional indicator of how much pain he was in.

"Because we heard a loud bang. It sounded like you fell," John said, trying to get a proper look at his friend.

"Well I did not," Sherlock stated, rising up again, albeit more slowly than usual so he didn't succumb to something as inane as dizziness. "I'll take the case Lestrade, nothing about it seems to make sense. It is most intriguing."


	2. Self Sacrifice

"How long have you been down here?" John asked, frowning, as he wandered into the living room in a dressing gown, drying his hair with a towel. Unfortunately he was pretty sure that he knew the answer already, but he was giving Sherlock the opportunity to prove him wrong. It had been three days since the start of the case and it was proving to be a difficult one. They seemed no further along than they did at the beginning; Sherlock downright refused to sleep or eat, rattling off the usual nonsense about digestion slowing him down and his mind being an engine. John didn't know where these metaphors came from, nor did he care, but his best friend's health was obviously suffering for his obsession over the work. The worst thing about it was John knew that he could do nothing about it other than nag him incessantly and hope that he annoyed Sherlock into doing as he said.

"Sherlock, how long have you been up?" John asked again once he had decided that Sherlock definitely was not going to answer his question. When he had gone to bed last night Sherlock had been in exactly the same position. Once again there was no response. Concerned, the doctor chucked the towel over the back of his chair and hurried through to the kitchen and saw that Sherlock was actually not looking through his microscope, he had actually fallen asleep with his eyes against the eyepieces. John couldn't help but imagine that it was probably incredibly uncomfortable and how exhausted Sherlock must have been to fall asleep like that. But he also could do nothing to stop the chuckle. Despite the fact that most of Sherlock's face was obscured by the microscope John was sorely tempted to take a photograph but in the end decided not to. Knowing his best friend, he'd probably deduce the photo had been taken and then make John's life a living hell until it was deleted.

Instead, the doctor approached his friend and shook his shoulder gently. "Come on Sherlock," he said in a low voice, but despite his precautions Sherlock jumped back in surprise. His eyes were bloodshot with dark shadows underneath. The purple bruise from when he had dropped his phone stood out with astonishing contrast against his pale white skin. But John did not notice this, he was completely preoccupied with the swirls of dried blood coming from his nose and streaming down his face, making their way onto his t-shirt, what would have once been a brilliant red was a dirty brown. Obviously Sherlock knew there was something wrong as he tentatively raised his hands to his face and felt around gently in confusion. Apparently he had been unaware of his nose bleed, which had evidently at one point been pouring like a torrent.

The doctor stood startled for a few seconds before bursting into action. Wordlessly he fetched a large bowl, scrubbed it clean because who knew what had been in there last, and filled it with warm soapy water. Whilst he was doing this Sherlock had obviously become bored and continued with whatever he was doing with the microscope before he had drifted off. John actually had to shout his name before he was willing to prise his eyes away from the object on the other side of the lens. "What?" he demanded, a lot of the vehemence was lost due to the apparent fragility in his voice.

"You need to clean yourself up. And I know I won't be able to persuade you to eat something, but will you sleep, even if it's only for an hour?" Picking up the cloth Sherlock shook his head.

"Once I've solved the case," he rasped. Carefully he began to dab at the dried blood, occasionally having to scrape it off the surface of his skin.

"Sherlock…"

"No." He said it in such a way that John knew there was no point in trying to argue.

"Fine."

Angrily John turned around and started the process of making tea. The doctor didn't see it but for a moment Sherlock's movements faltered, the cloth was held mid-air and Sherlock gazed at John's back. His expression held a deep-seated kind of sadness and fear which intensified as he noted that there was only one mug on the cabinet.

"Sorry John," Sherlock muttered just loud enough for John to hear. John paused and looked at his friend with surprise and his expression softened slightly. Howeve,r all he did as a reply was grunt. It was enough for Sherlock to know he was forgiven.

The two of them finished off their tasks in silence. Sherlock put the cloth back in the bowl of water that was now stained a sickly shade of red and reverted his attention back to the microscope with an intense concentration. He was momentarily distracted when he heard a thump on the table next to him which caused him to look up to see what was going on. There was a mug, the mug that had been on the cabinet before, sitting next to him. Steam drifted gently off of it and the contents looked warm and inviting. "Drink," John ordered. "I'm going to get dressed!" he called as he disappeared out of the room.

~0~

In the end, John was upstairs for close enough to an hour. He was supposed to be going to Harry's that day and stay for a few days, but the doctor in him was not confident that leaving Sherlock to his own devices when he was obviously unwell was a good idea. Even if he got people to check on him if something happened, he could end up on his own for hours. Mentally John slapped himself; Sherlock was a grown man and he could look after himself. Except he couldn't, the man had the worst self-preservation instincts John had ever known. In the end he had called Harry to ask her if she minded him coming another time, and apparently she had minded a lot. They hadn't seen each other in almost a year. The doctor was very much aware of this, but there was a reason they had left it so long. After a couple of days they got sick of each other, and by the fourth day they always wanted to kill each other. Why he had let himself get talked into going for four days John just didn't know, but he had. That was four days of hell for him and four days Sherlock would be alone.

~0~

There was nothing there, how could there be nothing there? There had to be, simply had to be. Sherlock raised shaking hands to the fine focus and adjusted it slightly. He had been looking for something, he didn't know what, but there had to be something in her blood, something that the labs wouldn't look for. It was the only possible explanation; the official report said she had died of heart failure but a perfectly healthy and happy woman with no family history simply did not suffer a heart attack in a random house. He must be missing something.

He removed the slide and placed it on the table before pressing his fingertips together in a contemplative manner. He had to be losing his touch, why could he not figure it out? Stupid! It couldn't be too difficult, everyone was an idiot and that included criminals. Sherlock had no idea how long he was sitting in his thoughtful pose but he was suddenly brought back into consciousness when his chin slipped off his finger tips and his head jerked forward.

In frustration of his weakness he slammed his clenched fist against the table and a groan escaped his lips as the microscope slide shattered under the force and embedded the shards into his skin. Tentatively he lifted his hand from the table, wincing at the slight movement of the glass. There wasn't a lot in there, but it was enough. Bright blood began to drip slowly onto the table and formed a small puddle. After watching with a kind of sick fascination for a couple of minutes as the pool grew larger and larger the detective grabbed a tea towel, wrapped his hand in it then dropped onto the couch. He had more important things to do than try and get the glass out, John could do it later.

For the next twenty minutes Sherlock lay on the couch, pressing into his hand and causing tendrils of pain to shoot up his arm whenever he felt himself beginning to drift. His ears perked slightly when he heard John coming back down the stairs but he didn't move. "Sher…" John started as he walked into the kitchen only to discover that the detective was not there. It only took him a few moments to see he was lying on the couch and then he saw the towel wrapped tightly around his hand.

"I can't leave you alone for a second, can I?" John asked in mock frustration, and he instantly went over to the couch and took Sherlock's hand. It took a lot of effort for the younger man not to groan in pain as his hand was unwrapped.

What John saw made him wince in sympathy; there wasn't a lot of glass, but the shards were big and had gone in deep. He still reckoned he could get them out with a pair of tweezers. "When did you do this?" he asked as he wrapped his friend's hand back up. "Couple of minutes ago? You should have shouted."

"No, twenty minutes ago," Sherlock replied distractedly, he was still trying to solve the mystery that was his current case.

"Twenty minutes ago!" John proclaimed in surprise. "Geez, it's still bleeding an awful lot." To this Sherlock shrugged and John shook his head in exasperation.

Sherlock didn't even realise John had gone but he re-emerged a few minutes later with some bandages and some disinfectant. The process of removing the glass was a painful one, but Sherlock remained stoic throughout. He did not speak and he did not react in any way. In fact, he made a conscious effort to make it look like he was thinking, and John seemed to fall for it. He didn't see to attempt to make any mundane conversation like he did so love to do.

"Fancy telling me how you got that?" John asked and Sherlock looked up. He was sitting in his seat, holding a cup of tea and staring directly at Sherlock. When did that happen?

"Microscope slide," he replied, causing John to crease his brow in confusion.

"What do you mean microscope slide?" the doctor asked curiously, but Sherlock waved him off. Sighing, John put his cup of tea down and leaned forwards so that his elbows were resting on his knees. "Look Sherlock…"

"Thinking," the detective interrupted.

"No, listen, this is important." He used his army voice and, even though Sherlock did not move, John knew he had his attention. "I don't like this; this cold is not going away. You're exhausted and not eating and dropping your phone should not have caused that kind of bruise. I am just worried this is more sinister than a cold. Will you come down to the surgery with me? We'll just draw some blood or something to make sure this isn't serious."

Red rimmed, icy blue eyes turned to glare at him, and John physically recoiled at the look he was given. It was hard to describe, but if he had to he'd describe it as worry masked with anger and frustration—a lot of anger and frustration. But John couldn't fathom what Sherlock was worried about, he seemed to think that it was just a cold, unless he didn't think it was just a cold. "What are you hiding from me?" John demanded, not sure if he was more worried or angry that his best friend had been hiding health-related issues from him. He didn't know why he thought Sherlock would actually confide in him, but had hoped he would.

The glare turned impossibly more intense but the doctor held his ground; this was important and it wasn't like the idiot would take care of himself. "I am thinking John," Sherlock growled but John could see him physically trying to stop himself from coughing.

"Yes, you are thinking, but very soon you will be sleeping because you are exhausted and refuse to eat. It isn't normal, not even for you."

"I rarely sleep or eat, you know this," Sherlock replied irritably then instantly fell into a deep and hacking coughing fit which left him breathless. John just watched him incredulously.

"Right, I don't care what you say, I'm staying here." At this Sherlock's expression turned into one of bewilderment.

"Where else would you be staying?"

"Damn it Sherlock, I've told you every day for the last week, I am going to Harry's!" John shouted, causing Sherlock to jump back in surprise. He shrank back slightly into the sofa, but John didn't notice the change in his friend. "Do you ever listen to a word I say?" Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but John interrupted him. "No, I don't want to hear it. I know the answer already. I don't know why I bother."

"I don't know why you bother either."

There was a pause in which the two men stared at each other, having no idea how to react. Sherlock was berating himself, mentally screaming at himself for being such an idiot. John on the other hand was barely containing his rage but he only managed to do this for a few seconds before it erupted out of him. "Fine," he hissed, giving Sherlock a look which matched the detective's own earlier look for ferocity. "If you don't want me here I'll just leave. I know when I am wanted." It took the detective a couple of seconds to understand what was going on. John had misconstrued what he said; John had thought he'd meant he didn't like John being there. Nothing could be further from the truth. But he couldn't decide which was better; John thinking he hated him or John understanding Sherlock's accidental confession about his insecurities. However, he did not have long to ponder this. Moments later John had stormed out of the room and up the stairs, reappearing a few minutes later to grab his jacket.

"I'm sorry John," Sherlock practically whimpered, watching on helplessly as his best friend prepared to leave.

"Shut the hell up Sherlock," the doctor replied either not noticing the drastic change in the detective's demeanour or being too angry to care. "You're not sorry." With that John was gone and Sherlock heard the front door slamming shut downstairs. His heart beat violently in his chest and his eyes burned, but he kept any tears at bay. He could not lose it, he had a case to focus on and he did not need John for that. He did not need anyone, he was alone in the world and that was the way he liked it. Funny, it didn't sound as convincing now as it used to.

But the case, it was intriguing and therefore distracting and if any old habits of his began to nag at the back of his mind, promising respite from any pain he denied he was feeling, he ignored it. Slowly he rearranged himself on the couch so he was lying back in his thinking position, and he relished in the throbbing pain in his hand, as it served as yet another distraction.

The next thing he knew Mrs Hudson was leaning over him concernedly, he looked up at her dazedly. "Are you alright dear?" She asked. "I heard shouting earlier and you're looking a little peaky. Where's John?" Sherlock ignored her questions, but instead pulled himself into a sitting position, his vision going a little fuzzy for a few seconds.

"What time is it?" he demanded.

"Six o'clock." The last time he's known it was half ten, how had he missed so much of the day? There was something going on, John was right, he just didn't want to admit it. "Can I get you something to eat? You look like you could do with something." But Sherlock was no longer listening. He was too busy looking at her earrings. They were ridiculously big and shiny.

"Oh!" Sherlock gasped causing Mrs Hudson to turn around and then smile. She knew that look. It was so blatantly obvious; he definitely was losing his touch. It was blindingly obvious, but he had it now, he had to go and tell Lestrade. He'd rather not, but he needed the man's resources. Excitedly the detective jumped up off the chair and swayed violently, his whole world vanishing into a sea of black for a few seconds. When he came back around he discovered Mrs Hudson doing her best to hold him upright. Smiling at her in thanks he started towards his bedroom to get dressed, but the elderly lady grabbed his sleeve. "Perhaps you should stay in Sherlock," she suggested kindly. "Get John to check you out once he has calmed down from whatever you two were fighting about. If it's an important case you can always get that detective friend of yours to help." Sherlock looked her up and down critically for a few seconds before wordlessly pulling away from her grip.

~0~

"Earlobes!" Sherlock proclaimed as he walked into Lestrade's office. The DI's first response was confusion as to Sherlock's seemingly random announcement. The next thing he noticed was the distinctive lack of John, probably best to avoid that topic all together. Then he noticed the way Sherlock's normally tight fitting clothes seemed to hang ever so slightly and how dreadful the man looked. Why was he even here? He looked like he could do with being tucked up in his bed, or better yet, a hospital bed. But he knew Sherlock and he knew there was no point in suggesting such a thing.

"What about earlobes?" he asked, putting down the papers he had been looking at before. Sherlock practically collapsed into the chair across from him. "The gene which causes the earlobes to be attached is recessive."

"And…? I'm not following here Sherlock." The detective sighed dramatically.

"The dead woman and the father have attached earlobes, I remember from the photos and the interview. The oldest son had detached earlobes which means…"

"… the husband is not the father. But what has this to do with the case?"

"Everything!" Sherlock declared before collapsing into yet another coughing fit, which had the people in the offices looking towards Lestrade's in concern.

"Are you alright, do you want some water?" Lestrade asked, leaning forward to get a better look at the younger man who simply waved him off.

"No time," he rasped. "Why didn't the husband say that the oldest child was not his?"

"Maybe he doesn't know," Lestrade answered in frustration at Sherlock's cryptic speaking. Sherlock shook his head. "Just tell me what you're thinking man!" Lestrade growled. "If there is no time to have some water then there is no time to talk in riddles." Sherlock glared at him but did as he asked.

"I checked on my phone, the oldest child is nine but they started seeing each other eight years ago. He obviously didn't want us to know he wasn't the son's father, which means the son does not know. Why would they not want the son to know his real father? Maybe his father was a nasty piece of work? It seems likely. Now, who would want to kill an ex-fast food worker with a husband and two sons other than a father who has been denied the right to see his child?"

Lestrade looked at Sherlock in astonishment. How he could think like that when he was feeling so rotten Lestrade would never know.

"You got all that from earlobes?"

"Simple really," Sherlock commented, his eyelids fluttering slightly.

"Go home and get some sleep. We can take it from here."

"No," Sherlock replied loudly, his eyelids snapping open once again. You need to go and take the father and sons into protective custody."

"Ok, we'll do that, you don't need to be there Sherlock."

"Yes I do," he replied firmly. In reality, he felt weak and exhausted, but he didn't think he could face the flat. He had driven John away, stupid, stupid.

He was roused from his internal monologue by Lestrade's fingers clicking in his face. "If you're coming, we are leaving now." Sherlock nodded wearily and followed Lestrade down to the cars. The DI made sure he walked slightly slower than usual to make sure the detective could keep up.

Soon they were underway, and it was all Sherlock could do not to throw up all over himself. It wouldn't really be throwing up, more like bringing up some bile but it would be unpleasant none the less. The nausea which had been absent for a while was coming back with a vengeance, and he had to keep swallowing to keep everything down.

That was the only thing which kept him awake during the twenty minute car ride, the distraction of trying not to be sick. Desperately he kept on checking his phone, hoping John had texted him, but he had not. Three times Sherlock composed a text to send to him but each time he had deleted it.

Soon the squad of police cars pulled up outside the house and they knocked at the door. There was no answer, so they tried again and again. They'd spoken to the husband and they knew he was in, so something was definitely going on. Swiftly they broke through the door and after a few seconds of searching they found them. The crazed madman with a knife held at the father's throat whilst the two children cowered in the corner. Police surrounded the two men whilst Donovan managed to whisk the children out of harm's way. Sherlock stood off to the side and observed what was going on.

"What's your name?" Lestrade asked, his weapon was still in his belt but the rest of the officer's had their guns trained on the man with the knife.

"Shut up!" The man shouted, his hand was shaking and a small trickle of blood flowed down the hostage's neck. He whimpered and clenched his eyes shut.

"You need to let him go, I'm sure we can work out some kind of compromise?" Lestrade tried again. He was by no means an expert on hostage situations but he had to stall until the experts did arrive.

"I don't need to do a damn thing!" the man screamed, taking a tighter hold on his hostage who whimpered once again. The DI held his arms forward in a placating manner and tried again.

"What is it you want; we might be able to sort something out without any bloodshed."

Sherlock saw it before it happened. The madman threw his hostage to the side and launched himself at Lestrade, knife aimed at his neck, and the DI did not move. All his training escaped him. But Sherlock had seen this coming and managed to intercept him before he reached the older man, tackling him to the ground from the side. It took Lestrade a moment to register what was going on but by the time he had, the rest of the officers had either piled on top of the criminal or were checking that the father was okay. Lestrade was just thankful they had gotten there on time; that had been a close call. How Sherlock had known that was going to happen Lestrade didn't know. Perhaps it was simply a fortunate coincidence, Sherlock oddly enough did believe in coincidence after all. Lestrade turned and opened his mouth to thank Sherlock, but no sound came out as he saw the younger man's body go rigid on the floor. "Damn!" he shouted. "He's seizing!"


	3. Alone

The first thing that popped into his head when he saw Sherlock convulsing on the floor was drugs. He didn't want to think it, but what else was he supposed to think of? Even now, sitting in the back of the ambulance as the paramedics worked busily, attaching wires to his pale skin, he couldn't rid his mind of the niggling feeling. But Sherlock had been clean ever since he met John; John was a miracle worker and Lestrade greatly respected all that he had done for Sherlock, and indeed all Sherlock had done for John. It was hard to describe, but Sherlock seemed more human around the army doctor and it seemed he was happier too. The DI couldn't even imagine Sherlock relapsing whilst John was around.

But that did raise another, potentially worrying, question. Where was John? The consulting detective had been acting weirdly, well, more weirdly than usual. Things were never easy with Sherlock; only someone who knew him well could pick up on the nuances of his behaviour. Normally Lestrade would rely on John's assessment of Sherlock's mood, as he himself still struggled to do so despite knowing him for several years longer. But he didn't have John today, and even he could tell something was amiss. If John was simply away somewhere else, Sherlock would not be behaving this way. The only way he was going to know was by talking to John, as he couldn't imagine Sherlock would be too forthcoming with information.

Shaking his head violently to get himself out of his reverie, Lestrade focussed on what was going on around him. The paramedics were no longer bustling about so much but were writing things down and frowning at the younger, still unconscious, man. It was weird seeing his face so still, normally it would be pulled into a frown or a look of intense concentration. Very rarely he was smiling, only if he had a breakthrough on a case or on the rare occasion of John being able to make him laugh. But now it was relaxed and he looked... well, he looked absolutely terrible. Gaunt would probably be the only way to describe him. How had he managed to get even thinner? There was something going on and Lestrade wished John was there, at least then there was the faintest hope that someone would know what was happening.

The one comfort he took from the situation was the beeping of the heart monitor, it seemed to be a bit too fast, but at least it was there. The DI let his eyes drift from the sick man's face and his eyes widened when he saw his arms. Sherlock's coat and jacket had been removed and his shirt sleeve rolled up to fit the blood pressure cuff on, but they were covered in bruises; ugly smudges of purple, red and green marred the once pale arms, and it made Lestrade feel sick to his stomach. How the hell had Sherlock managed to sustain such severe bruising? The marks disappeared under his shirt sleeve, so he had no idea how far up his arm they spread.

The journey seemed endless, punctuated only by the beeping of the heart monitor and the mutterings of the paramedics. Finally they arrived at the hospital and, despite trying his best to remain with Sherlock, Lestrade was escorted to a waiting room, provided with a coffee by one of the nurses, and then left to wait and see what happened. Whilst his coffee was cooling he phoned New Scotland Yard, explained a civilian had taken a seizure at a crime scene so he was at the hospital to ensure he was okay. That left him with the task he had been dreading: phoning John. He had absolutely no idea how the doctor would react.

Reluctantly, he found John in his address book and hit the call button. John's phone rang seven times before he answered. "What is it Greg?" he asked, sounding annoyed.

"John, its Sherlock."

"Look, I don't care what he did or did not do or who he insulted. I am not coming down."

"It is rather more serious than that."

"I don't know if you realise this Greg," John started sounding both tired and frustrated. "Sherlock and I had a fight. I'm staying at my sister's for four days. After that I will come down and speak to Sherlock but not a minute before then, you understand. I am not his keeper and he does not want my help." So they did have a fight Greg thought with an odd feeling of trepidation in the pit of his stomach.

"I know you're angry John but something has happened."

"What?" John asked, a hint of concern marring his otherwise purely annoyed tone of voice.

"He’s sick." There was a brief pause and then a long-suffering sigh.

"I know he’s sick Greg, but he has made it abundantly clear he does not want and will not accept my help. I am very sorry, but there is nothing that I can do for you right now. Let me calm down for a few days and then, perhaps, I will try and talk some sense into him."

With that John hung up, leaving Lestrade staring at his phone in disbelief, John hadn't even been willing to listen to what Lestrade had to say. Not even the mention of Sherlock's health had made him want to listen. That must have been one hell of a fight. The DI was about to send John a message about the seizure when he saw a doctor approaching and decided that perhaps it could wait until he knew precisely what condition Sherlock was in.

~0~

"Sorry," John muttered, slipping his phone back into his pocket and looking up at his sister as she polished off the rest of her pasta. It was an easy Bolognese recipe Mrs Hudson had shown him. Harry had never been the best of cook, so whenever he visited he would have to cook if he wanted a proper meal.

"It's fine," she replied, taking a sip of her water, an action John couldn't help but grin at. He had not seen a single bottle of alcohol at her house, and he had searched rather thoroughly. Living with Sherlock had taught him where to look if someone was hiding something. "I hope everything is okay, you sounded stressed." John shrugged and picked up his fork to finish off the pasta.

"It was Lestrade, just sounds like Sherlock being Sherlock again and he has forgotten how to cope with that." Not drinking suited Harry, this was the most civilised conversation that they'd managed to have in years. Perhaps the next four days would not be quite as hellish as he had expected.

His and Harry's relationship was a fragile one to say the least. They had to avoid any topic which could be at all controversial, or else they would start a fight that would result in a refusal to talk to each other for several months. Therefore, it was an unspoken rule that they could only converse about 'safe' topics, which meant conversations about the weather and the prices of things in the shops broken up by long periods of awkward silence. Unfortunately Harry, despite being sober, did not stick to this unspoken rule. "I don't know why you live with him," she commented nonchalantly as she placed a soapy plate on the draining board.

"Hm?" he responded, picking up the plate and beginning to dry it with a tea towel.

"Sherlock. Why do you live with him? I mean, all he ever seems to do is cause you grief, so why do you put up with it?" John paused with his drying and considered his answer. He could see how this would end and he wanted more than anything to avoid the inevitable shouting match.

"Well, I know he has a lot of quirks, but he is utterly brilliant."

"I was just wondering though, what makes you think he even likes you? Don't get me wrong, he should like you. But from what you have told me it seems that he does not make friends easily, and he is good at acting if it suits him. How do you know you are friends? How do you know he simply is not using you as means to an end?"

John stood there in stunned silence, considering his reply. It was a good question, with Sherlock one never could tell. But somehow he knew Sherlock trusted him and, though he probably would not admit it out loud, did like John. Perhaps it was because of how long they had lived together and how much time they spent together. Sherlock had no patience for people he did not like, but yet he could tolerate, even enjoyed, John's company for long periods of time. Yes, Sherlock was a good actor, but not that good an actor. But Harry's comment wrangled him for more than one reason. It angered him that she would try to put such doubts in his mind and what was even worse was that it was working to an extent. He had logical arguments as to why he knew Sherlock considered him a friend, but still he had that niggling feeling at the back of his mind. But what angered him the most was that he was brilliant, but Harry obviously didn't think so. Yes, the doctor was angry at him but no matter how much he wanted to, he could not hate the eccentric detective. "I'm going out for some air," he proclaimed. He wanted to get out before the argument turned nasty. He chucked the tea towel onto the cabinet and stalked out of the room.

Once he was outside, the air turned chilly but refreshing, and he relished in it. It was quite a relief after being stuck in the tense environment with his sister for the past few hours. He began to take off down the road, dwelling on the events of the day. The doctor was regretting his actions earlier in the day, he was angry at Sherlock but it sounded like he was sicker than he was letting on. Still, pride was not letting him even consider going back to Baker Street until the four days were over. Knowing the detective, he would have recovered by then and would be out solving cases again if he even bothered stopping to recover in the first place. Still, it might be wise phoning Lestrade back to see what was going on.

He pulled the phone out of his pocket and called the DI. He grew more and more frustrated each time the phone rang without an answer. Eventually, he was put onto the answering machine and he growled. "Hi Greg, it’s John. Sorry about earlier, I've just had a bit of a difficult day. I was just wondering if you could phone me back and let me know what is going on with Sherlock. I'm not saying I am coming back; I just want to make sure he’s not dying or anything. Anyway, thanks, I'll talk to you later." John hung up the phone, feeling slightly better about the situation. That was until a sleek back car glided past him like a ghost and came to a smooth stop just ahead of him. At this he felt his heart sink.  
A large suited man stepped out of the vehicle, walked around the back of the car, and held the door open expecting John to clamber in. He shook his head vehemently.

"No, no, I am not getting in this damn car. I want to know what is going on before I even consider getting in there."

"I am afraid I am going to have to ask you to get into the car sir," said the suited man in a voice posh enough to rival that of Mycroft's.

"Or what? What are you going to do if I don't? Drug me?" John scoffed.

"I would prefer not to resort to such methods sir." The doctor most certainly did not like the sound of that, but he was determined not to be intimidated by Mycroft and certainly not his minions.

"Tell me what is going on now," he ordered. For the first time the driver actually looked at him.

"I have not been made privy to the details but I have been assured the situation in serious sir." John couldn't help but wonder if he was instructed to finish every sentence with the word sir.

For a few moments he considered his options. He was well and truly curious and concerned with what was going on and, if the situation was not as dire as he was being led to believe, he didn't actually have to go into Baker Street. "Fine," he said, injecting as much anger into his words as he could. After he clambered in, the door slammed shut behind him and he turned, ready to interrogate Anthea. However his mouth was left hanging open when instead of meeting the gaze of the pretty woman as he had expected it was Mycroft Holmes he made eye-contact with. If the elder Holmes wanted to talk to him, he was never involved in collecting him. "This must be bad," he commented dumbly.

"Indeed," Mycroft replied just as the driver's door shut. "Take us straight to the hospital," he ordered and the car pulled away.

At the mention of hospital John's eyes went wide with concern. "What happened?" he demanded, having to hold himself back for fear that he would grab Mycroft by his perfectly ironed shirt, he was so desperate for information.

"There was an incident at a crime scene."

"What kind of incident do you damn well mean?" he asked angrily, not in the mood for the cryptic messages the Holmes seemed to like talking in.

"He took a seizure and he went to hospital, Lestrade was in the ambulance with him. He is currently stable but still unconscious. They are running tests as we speak. I do not know any more right now." At the mention of a seizure John found himself unable to concentrate on the rest of what Mycroft was saying. He started running through all the possible diagnoses but none of them were good. It would probably be best not to think about it. The irony of what he had said to Lestrade was not lost on him. I just want to make sure he’s not dying.

~0~  
The journey to the hospital lasted three quarters of an hour, and that was probably the most awkward forty five minutes of John's life. It was even worse than when he was with his sister, because at least then he could make small talk. It was impossible to make small talk with Mycroft without being scoffed at. The elder Holmes spent his time typing constantly on his phone, and John was curious as to whether he was doing stuff related to Sherlock or government things. He didn't bother asking, either way he would not get a straight answer. Instead, he looked out the window but he saw nothing of the passing scenery, his mind was too busy worrying about his friend, and he’d abandoned all residual anger from their earlier argument.

Once inside the hospital, John simply followed Mycroft. This was not St Bart's, so he didn’t know his way around; Mycroft, on the other hand, apparently knew exactly the way to go, which was no surprise when John thought about it. Surprisingly, Mycroft did not enter the detective's room when they arrived, merely gestured to John to enter and then said he was going to find the doctor. But John didn't care as the government official strode confidently off. All he could do was stand with his hand placed on the door handle, trying to gather the strength to open the door while thinking about how fortunate it was that Sherlock had been allocated a single room. Sherlock and hospitals certainly did not mix but Sherlock and a hospital room with other people was a recipe for complete and utter disaster.

In the end he pressed on the door handle gently and the door swung silently open. The back of Lestrade's head blocked his view of the figure in the bed; the DI obviously had not heard him enter, as he did not turn around. Reluctantly John approached the bed, not sure if he wanted to see what his friend looked like in his weakened state. Whatever his mind had conjured up was nothing compared to the reality of the situation. No wonder Lestrade had not heard him come in; as soon as he laid eyes on the detective he was transfixed.

Dark hair fell loosely over translucent skin, which looked a sickly grey colour when compared to the painfully white pillow under his head. There was a slight flush of pink across his cheek bones, and his actual cheeks looked hollow and ghastly. He looked more like a skull with skin pulled tightly across it than a human being. The bruise across the bridge of his nose looked even worse than before, an ugly purple spread across otherwise pale skin. Similar bruises were spread up his arms, disappearing beneath the hospital gown and blood pressure cuff. The hand that John had wrapped up was now in a fresh-looking bandage. Wires led into Sherlock's body, glancing at the bags above his bed John realised they had put him on IV glucose solution, which made John feel slightly ill. Sherlock must have starved himself into hypoglycaemia. There only was one word to describe how Sherlock looked: sick.

Eventually Lestrade seemed to notice John's presence and gave him a sad smile. "You came?" he asked, not sounding terribly surprised.

"Yeah, Mycroft came by and got me. Sorry about earlier. I did phone, but you didn't pick up."

"Did you? Damn, sorry mate, I've been a little preoccupied." John nodded in understanding.

"So what happened?" he asked, his voice betraying the worry he was feeling.

"I'm not entirely sure. He rugby tackled some mad man trying to stab me and the next thing I know he’s taking a seizure on the floor. Only lasted a minute, but the only time I have ever seen him seize was when he was high, so you can imagine what was going through my head, especially since the two of you had a fight. So we called an ambulance which took us here. They have taken a hell of a lot of blood from him for testing. A nurse came in about ten minutes ago and put him on that glucose, she said his blood sugar was too low to wait for him to wake up an eat something. She'll be back here soon to do his blood sugar again." John approached his friend slowly and gently laid his hand on Sherlock's. The normally vibrant man looked so fragile lying on the bed, and he did not dare do more than touch his skin lightly for fear that he would break.

It was strange, seeing him like this, and it was a sight that John never wanted to see again. "Sorry," he whispered, as he watched Sherlock's chest steadily rise and fall. He could not help but feel a little guilt, perhaps if he had swallowed his pride and stayed instead of abandoning his friend Sherlock would not be in this condition.

~0~

There were people everywhere; the busy streets of London were not something he enjoyed. He could tolerate them for a case, but he wasn’t on a case. In fact, he had no idea why he was there. People were walking past him, inadvertently brushing up past him, all merging into a colourful blur of swirling movement. Up ahead there was something, or rather someone, who stood out from the rest of the crowd. They were not a part of the haziness around him. It was John.

He lifted up his arms and waved at his friend, blocking out the sickening movement around him. He even tried shouting but John did not see him. "John!" he shouted desperately, "John!" All the people around him made him feel nervous but if he was with John it would be okay, they could go back to Baker Street and John would make tea and perhaps he could get rid of the headache which was plaguing him.

It was at this point Sherlock became aware of the stares. People were beginning to notice him, they were stopping and staring, so there was no longer a swirling mass around him but instead a sea of faces. The worst part was he could read nothing off of them. There was no data to be gained from them; he was surrounded by people he knew nothing about, and that unnerved him more than he would care to admit. He ceased calling out for his friend and began pushing through the crowd, eyes still focussed on the doctor. He managed to make it half way through the crowd, his inability to read anything from the people around him was making him feel physically sick, but still he persevered despite the fact he could feel himself weakening with each step. 

Suddenly, it was not just the exhaustion which stopped him moving forward, but the people began holding onto his arms, preventing him from reaching his friend. In desperation he started calling out but all he was met with was laughter from behind. Glancing back he saw that Moriarty had one arm and Anderson had the other. At first it was just them laughing, but soon the whole crowd was hysterical, finding it hilarious that Sherlock thought people cared about him. They mocked him for thinking John liked him and for thinking Lestrade would still talk to him if he could not solve cases. But what broke Sherlock the most was when John turned to look to see what was going on, met his eyes, and then without hesitation walked away.

~0~

Sherlock's heart rate had been steadily increasing, and John watched it with concern. Neither he nor the DI were prepared when Sherlock sat bolt upright in bed and began to dry heave, gasping for breath. It took a few seconds for them to recover from the surprise, but once they had the two of them were instantly by his side, holding an emesis basin under his mouth despite knowing that there would be nothing in there to come out.

~0~

He could feel hands on him as his body tried to wring itself dry. The feeling of the crowds touching him still plagued his skin, and their laughter still rang harshly in his ears. Desperately he pushed the owners of the hands away from him, grabbing the basin off them and flinching away as soon as they tried to touch him again. They soon seemed to get the idea, and he was left alone. For some reason now that the hands were gone, he missed their presence. They seemed comforting in a way despite his initial panic. But he couldn't get them back now, so he sat on his bed, mouth burning with bile, feeling very much alone.


	4. Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The support this story has received from the fandom is absolutely inspiring; thank you all so much. I'm sure gemstone1234 would be honored if they knew how many people cared about their work so much. To thank you all, I will be binge-posting all of the original chapters along with the first new one. Enjoy!

The tapping of Mycroft's shoes and clicking of his umbrella as it made contact with the hard, hospital floor echoed ominously down the corridor. The hallway was far from deserted, but Mycroft felt as if he were in a world of his own. He did not notice the people around him, which was a peculiar sensation to the ever-observant Holmes.

Confidently he strode up to the nurse's station where he was met by a harried looking nurse. "Can I help you sir?" She asked, quickly glancing up from the folder she was flicking through.

"Yes, I wish to talk to my brother's doctor. A Dr. Janssen I believe."

"And what is your name?" she asked looking up properly from the file.

"I am Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes' brother."

"I'll make sure he is told you wish to talk to him. He is quite busy though so I can't promise when he will be with you." Mycroft considered this before nodding his thanks to the nurse and heading back down the corridor. He was not willing to wait to find out about his brother's condition.

~0~

Sherlock sat on his bed staring straight ahead refusing to look at either John or Lestrade. Both of them had attempted to remove the emesis basin from him trembling hands but he had held on with an iron grip, refusing to let go. Neither of them was quite sure what to do, so they sat there in an awkward silence, occasionally trying to coax some words from Sherlock but never succeeding. Somehow he looked worse than when he had been lying unconscious because he looked afraid and out of control. There were cracks in his usually impenetrable façade, and no matter what he said it was obvious that he knew that there was something seriously wrong and he didn't know how to cope.

The doctor and the DI breathed an audible sigh of relief as Mycroft walked through the door. He did not take a seat, but instead stood at the foot of his brother's bed, spinning his umbrella slowly against the white floor. "It's nice to see you are back with us, dear brother," Mycroft commented, sounding for all the world like there was nothing wrong. At this Sherlock's eyes flickered across to gaze angrily at Mycroft's face. John could not help but feel a slight sense of relief; that was more of a response than he had managed to get from his best friend. "You gave Dr. Watson and the DI quite a scare, not to mention the others present and the crime scene."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock hissed angrily at Mycroft.

"You know why, you just don't want to admit it. You are sick and if you have made your own diagnosis, you should tell us, it might speed proceedings up somewhat since you will most likely be correct."

There was a brief pause before Sherlock retaliated, albeit in a predictable manner. "There is nothing wrong with me."

"You've lost weight," he commented seriously and he looked the closest to concerned that he had ever looked in both John's and Lestrade's experience.

"You've gained it."

"You're pale."

"I am always pale."

"You have bruising."

"I have a dangerous job."

"You look exhausted."

"I don't sleep when I am on a case."

"You have been nauseous."

"I've had the flu!"

"Sherlock, you had a seizure, dammit!" Mycroft shouted, momentarily losing his calm exterior, much to the surprise of everyone in the room including himself. He took a deep breath to calm himself down. John doubted he got that flustered even when trying to prevent the outbreak of war, if that indeed was in his job description.

"I am fine," Sherlock whispered, though this time it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than anyone else.

"No Sherlock, you are in denial. This is exactly what you were like while you were on drugs." Suddenly all the air was sucked from the room and Mycroft knew he had gone too far. Any hope of getting Sherlock to admit to anything was lost. "I apologise Sherlock, the doctor should be along soon, then hopefully we should be able to start sorting this entire thing out."

Awkward silence filled the room as it had done before Mycroft entered. Despite being furious at his brother's presence and words, Sherlock was struggling to stay awake. He was battling the after-effects of the seizure and the symptoms of his unknown ailment, and he was losing. It would have been amusing watching his head loll if the situation was not so potentially devastating. Eventually Sherlock lost, his chin dropped to his chest, eyes falling shut, his grip on the basin loosened, and John quickly whisked it away.

It was not long before the doctor arrived, looking exceptionally flustered, much to John's surprise. In his experience of hospitals it was almost impossible to get time with a doctor and, unless the patient's heart was stopping, they never ran into a room as this one had essentially done. But Mycroft was involved, so that did change things slightly. "I am, er, I'm Dr. Janssen, your brother's doctor. I've received a phone call to, um sorry; I got called to tell me to take a special interest in this case. Mycroft nodded, obviously knowing exactly where that phone call came from.

"Yes, and you will continue to take a special interest until Sherlock is better or I feel there is a doctor which can treat him more effectively. Now, this is Dr. John Watson and DI Gregory Lestrade, my brother's friends," he commented gesturing to both of the men respectively. "Tell us what you can about Sherlock's condition." The doctor looked a bit unsure before obviously forcing himself to appear more confident.

"Sir, I do not feel comfortable disclosing information whilst the patient is still unconscious." A mixed expression of frustration and respect crossed the elder Holmes' face.

"He woke up a few minutes ago but he is now sleeping. As much as I respect your desire to protect my brother's confidentiality, I regret to inform you that if you do not tell me I have other means of finding out. Where do you think that phone call came from?" Mycroft asked, giving Dr. Janssen a meaningful look. "Also, as you just said, my brother is sleeping and I am a family member. You are well within your rights to tell me what is going on, as it is logical to assume my brother would want me to be privy to such information. I can get you the relative legislation if you wish, but I am sure that will not be necessary." John had to work hard not to scoff at Mycroft claiming Sherlock would want him to know about his illness.

Dr. Janssen looked a little hesitant at first before finally seeming to give in. As he spoke he soon grew in confidence as they crossed into his field of expertise. "We do not know much at the moment. As you know Sherlock was taken in with an unexplained seizure and exhibited severe bruising. When he came in was hypoglycaemic, which could explain the seizure, but it's very unlikely. We have given him a sugar solution which should have put his blood sugar levels back up. We have taken some blood for testing and we'll check his blood glucose levels very soon. When he wakes up I will need to take a history off him to see what other symptoms he has been exhibiting. We also require a urine and stool sample," he said placing two specimen cups on the table by Sherlock's bed. "And depending on what the results of the blood test show we will run more tests, but considering the seizure, he will likely need a lumbar puncture."

A deafening silence filled the room. Everyone in the room knew that whatever was ailing Sherlock was not a good thing, by any luck it would be easy to treat, but that was the best they could hope for. Eventually Mycroft asked the question everyone was dying to know the answer to. "And what do you think is wrong with him, given what you have seen?" He asked in a manner which indicated he didn't really want to know the answer, but at the same time he had to know.

"I would rather not answer that question Mr. Holmes; it is better not to guess, as it often causes unnecessary worry." John looked at Mycroft and furrowed his brow. The elder Holmes still stood stoically, but John could see worry playing at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He was the most emotional that John had ever seen him, he looked almost unsure of himself.

"Dr. Janssen," John spoke, deciding Mycroft needed a quick break from being in charge. "I am a doctor, trust me, I am already thinking up all sorts of possible scenarios, I doubt you could say anything which could cause me any more worry." The doctor sighed, obviously not happy, but knowing that the three men in the room needed to hear all possibilities.

"Well, as I said, I do not know a lot. I don't know much about his other symptoms, as I have not had a chance to ask him about them. However, that type of bruising is often associated with some kind of blood disorder, and the hand which wouldn't stop bleeding would also point towards a blood disorder. The seizure is a bit odd though, it could have been caused by his low blood sugar levels, or something passing into his central nervous system, or something else entirely. But please, that is just me speculating, so don't take it as a diagnosis. It is highly likely there is something else going on. If he has been ill recently, stressed perhaps, and had a bit of a fall that could cause the same symptoms. We won't know anything until the tests come back."

"How long will that take?" Lestrade asked, trying to process all that he had heard.

"The blood counts won't take too long; they should be through the lab in a couple of hours. The other ones will take about a day, unfortunately." The three men looked at each other worriedly as Dr. Janssen stood by and watched. "I am sorry," he said awkwardly. "I do have other patients but I will come down and let you know as soon as the first test results come in." Mycroft nodded his consent for the doctor to leave.

"If he requires specialist treatment, Dr. Janssen, I would like a list of specialists in the necessary field. You have to understand that only the best will be treating my brother." The doctor hastily agreed before practically running out of the door. He seemed to realise pretty quickly that he was not dealing with the average family that he would have been trained for.

~0~

Donovan and Anderson shoved their stuff into their lockers hastily. It had been a long day for them; Lestrade was at the hospital, which meant that they had to get through all the urgent paperwork that he would have had to go through. "I blame the Freak for all this," Anderson grumbled, realising he should have been home two hours ago. "I had a table booked for us and everything, but he just went ahead and made us miss it." Sally glared at him, she wasn't a fan of the consulting detective, everyone was aware of that, but he had saved Lestrade from being stabbed by the madman; that had to count for something.

"I hope he is okay," she commented, trying to placate Anderson's anger before it really got going. He was not pleasant for her to be around when he was angry. "Having a seizure must be awful."

"Serves him right if you ask me," Anderson grumbled and Donovan slammed her locker shut and glared at him. Not liking someone was one thing, but wishing something like that on them was quite something else.

"Come on, he practically saved Lestrade's life. You have to give him credit for that," she said angrily, causing the forensics officer to turn and face her.

"You know him; you can't actually think he did that for anything other than selfish purposes. What, has he turned human or something all of a sudden? No, he did it because no officer other than Lestrade would be stupid enough to let him help with cases let alone let him on a crime scene. No, he needs Lestrade for his addiction."

"And what about the seizure?" Sally asked knowing it was not worth arguing about Sherlock's motivation for saving Lestrade's life. "You can't seriously wish a seizure on someone, can you?"

"I said it served him right, he probably just started the drugs up again and overdosed. Are you developing a soft spot for the Freak, Sally? Didn't think he was really your type."

"Shut up!" she growled. "I don't need to like him to give him credit where he deserves it. He did a good thing saving Lestrade like that and it was obviously difficult for him, he's been ill recently, that much is plain as day." Anderson narrowed his eyes at the woman he had planned to have a romantic evening with.

"Well if you're so concerned about that weirdo spend the night with him instead." With that he stalked off, leaving Sally seething in the locker room. She then decided that perhaps paying the detective a visit was not such a bad idea after all.

~0~

Upon arriving at the hospital Sally realised that she had probably arrived at the most inopportune time. It was about nine at night and she realised that she might not be able to actually go up to Sherlock's room, but thought she may be able to get an update on how he was doing at the very least. However, at the reception she was met by a disgruntled looking nurse who mumbled something about people never paying attention to the visiting hours, but was then told she may as well go up as the room was filled with people who refused to leave anyway.

Hastily she left to search for Sherlock's room, eager to get away from the obviously frustrated woman. When she did eventually make it up, it was to a bit of a strange sight. Sherlock was sitting up in bed, looking greyer than she was sure was good for him, arguing with John who stood at the foot of his bed, leaning on the railing. The source of their argument was the food on the plate on Sherlock's lap and going by the look of it she didn't blame the man for not wanting to eat it. A man who she presumed was Mycroft Holmes was sitting in the corner, having stolen the table from by Sherlock's bed, working away on some file, though obviously half listening to the conversation around him. And then there was Lestrade who was standing there, not doing anything other than observing, and his face bore an expression of both concern and amusement.

Tentatively she knocked at the door, drawing the attention of all of the men in the room. Sherlock glared at her whereas everyone else gazed at her in surprise. "I won't stay long," she said awkwardly as she walked into the room. It looked weird to see the usual great and powerful detective sick and fragile in a hospital bed, but she was very careful not to stare, although she was fairly sure she looked uncomfortable as hell. She certainly felt it. "I just wanted to see how you were getting on." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something which was almost certainly insulting before being reduced to a coughing fit. Automatically Lestrade poured a glass of water from a jug and handed it to John, who handed it to Sherlock when he was done. Sherlock took it, albeit grudgingly, and started to sip at the water whilst Mycroft watched the proceedings with mild fascination.

"He's not doing brilliant," John supplied after giving up the little hope he had of Sherlock answering the question himself. "But he would be doing better if he ate since he has just had a seizure," he added meaningfully, causing glazed eyes to glare at him. Despite the seriousness of the situation she found herself chuckling; Sherlock and John's dynamic had not seemed to have changed in the slightest. John, ever the doctor, was desperately trying to get the younger man to take care of himself and Sherlock was resisting him every step of the way.

Her moment of mirth did not last long however, the smile quickly faded as she saw concern etch itself into the elder Holmes' face. "I have news," an unknown voice said from behind her. She turned to see who she presumed was the detective's doctor. The man wore the same expression she wore when she had to break bad news, the one of professional calm, and even though she wanted to know what was wrong, she knew she could not be in the room when they found out. This could potentially be a devastating moment for Sherlock, judging by the expression on the doctor's face anyway, and he would not want to share the moment with her.

Wordlessly she left the room and Dr. Janssen let her past before heading over to the bed, chart in hand. Mycroft rose from where he had been sitting and stood next to the head of the bed, and Sherlock leant away from him, unconsciously trying to avoid his touch. Nervously he began to scratch the crook of his elbow; a nervous habit he had gained after years of being a drug user. John stood stoically where he had been before and Lestrade came up next to him looking incredibly worried. The air in the room seemed frozen and nothing which lay outside of that hospital room seemed to matter, the hustle and bustle outside seemed to become muted and far away. They all knew that whatever the chart said was not good news.

"Your blood counts have come back from the lab Mr. Holmes, and they weren't what we had hoped to see. Your white blood cell count is well above the normal range, but your platelets and red blood cells are way below what we would like them to be. This means you are anaemic and will explain if you've been feeling dizzy at all, and the low platelets will explain the severe bruising. Unfortunately these results are what we would expect from many forms of cancer, so we are going to need to check you out to see if that's the case and, if it is, what type it is. Because the numbers on your blood work are so extreme we are going to have to do that tonight I am afraid. We'll need to take a medical history but I'll do that in the morning. Once everything is down to the lab we'll have to wait a while for the results to come through anyway."

The doctor's spiel left everyone in a stunned silence. Sherlock was gripping the blanket around him so hard his hands were shaking and his Adam's apple bobbed nervously about in his throat, but his expression remained bored as it always did unless there was an exciting case going on. Mycroft was the same as Sherlock in that his expression remained the same and the only tells which indicated there was anything wrong were extremely hard to spot. He held his umbrella slightly more firmly than he usually would and his eyes flickered about more as he tried to think of possible solutions to this latest problem.

Lestrade and John were not sure what to do with themselves. They wanted to move about to help them think, but they couldn't, so instead had to be satisfied with tapping their feet and playing with their hands. It wasn't confirmed, but Sherlock very likely had cancer. John was a doctor and he knew that they did not make statements like that unless they are fairly certain that it is the truth. But it couldn't be right; they had to have messed something up somewhere or something. Sherlock Holmes did not get sick and he most certainly did not get cancer. He wasn't supposed to be reduced to being a patient in a hospital who was dependent on people for everything. Sherlock was incredibly independent and did not need anyone's help with anything. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, should not be in hospital, he should be out solving crimes and terrifying victims into talking quickly. But with the way he looked he would not be scaring anyone any time soon. Perhaps he did have cancer, but John would not believe it until there was an official diagnosis.

"W-what tests are you going to have to do?" John stuttered, the gravity of the situation somehow washing all his medical knowledge away from him.

"We'll need a bone marrow biopsy and a lumbar puncture just in case it is cancer and it has spread into his central nervous system. I'll need to give you a physical too Mr. Holmes, just to check for anything else which might give us a clue as to what is wrong with you." At this Sherlock's whole body tensed as a wave of anxiety washed through him. Mycroft seemed to notice this and turned to the doctor.

"I am sorry Dr Janssen; could you give us a moment?" Mycroft asked, his voice sickly sweet.

"Yes, of course," he said hurriedly. The elder Holmes still unnerved him a great deal. "I have some paperwork I need to fill in so I'll be back in about an hour with a nurse to carry out the tests." And with that he left.

~0~

Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. The word flowed constantly through his mind as if to tease him. It hurt to think it because, despite all his denials, he knew it was true. The symptoms fit, he knew enough about medicine to know that. But why did he have it? He was young, relatively healthy; sure he used to smoke a lot but… cancer. He would never get used to hearing that word when referring to him. Cancer, why did he have cancer of all things? Cancer was dull, illness in general was dull. John would fuss, Mycroft would worry and be annoying and who knew how Lestrade would react. Or Molly even, or Mrs Hudson. He didn't want them to know, they'd come and they'd fuss because for some reason they cared. Well, they seemed to care when he could work, when he could function, but perhaps it would be different when he was completely useless.

And what about John? The thought of John leaving made him feel sick to the stomach and for a moment considered grabbing the emesis basin. Would John leave? Mycroft wouldn't, he was obligated as Sherlock's elder brother to stay, but John had no obligation, and neither did Lestrade.

Sherlock tried to stop thinking; he did not want to go down that line of thought. But it turned out he couldn't help it. He had seen cancer patients before; he knew that sometimes the treatment was worse than the disease itself. Cancer was in fact a horrible disease that could degrade its victims, leaving none of their privacy intact, before killing them off or leaving them scarred for the rest of their life. He would rather die than let himself endure that humiliation, but he had a funny feeling that he would not be allowed to die of his own accord. But he was thinking too much, they didn't even know if it was cancer yet. But that was his curse, he always thought too much and there was no way to make it stop.

It was then that Sherlock realised that the doctor had been talking the whole time. "We'll need a bone marrow biopsy and a lumbar puncture just in case it is cancer and it has spread into his central nervous system. I'll need to give you a physical too Mr. Holmes, just to check for anything else which might give us a clue as to what is wrong with you." Sherlock felt his whole body tense up. A physical meant that the doctor would be touching him; the idea of his prying fingers touching him when he did not want to be touched made his skin crawl. The detective shivered, trying to shake off the imaginary fingers. The younger man did not notice when the doctor left, nor did he notice when people started talking and asking him questions. He didn't even notice when reassuring hands began rubbing his shoulders before quickly being shaken off.


	5. Blood Like Water

He tried—he really did—to cooperate with his examination. He knew in his heart of hearts that what they were doing was designed ultimately to help him, so he made a conscious effort not to flinch away from their touches. Yet he couldn't help it: they were touching, poking, prodding, listening as if he was nothing more than a scientific specimen. At first he thought that he would prefer it that way, there was nothing personal in it, so therefore nothing to be afraid of and nothing to be embarrassed about. But then when he found himself sitting on the side of the bed in nothing but his underwear, vulnerable, as several pairs of eyes scrutinised his scrawny and battered body, he began to feel ever so slightly nervous.

The detective had told all his visitors to leave as the doctors performed their tests; it was bad enough the medical staff seeing him in his weakened state. It would be even worse if the people he cared about saw his body in its less than pristine condition. He did not want to see the disgust in their eyes, and more than anything he did not want to see them leave him. Now they were gone and he was no more than a patient that required treatment and Sherlock found himself longing for John's comforting presence. Or even Lestrade's, because Lestrade had seen him sick before. True, it had been the drugs and of his own doing, but perhaps he wouldn't leave as quickly as the others. Sherlock knew he couldn't risk it though. He also liked to think that John would not abandon him at the first sign of trouble, but he just couldn't be sure. The army doctor enjoyed action and excitement, neither of which he could provide. Even if he didn't intend to initially, he would leave. Everyone always left eventually. The mere fact that the army doctor had stuck with him for so long was something Sherlock was infinitely grateful for. And anyway, Sherlock didn't even want to think what they would say if they saw his arms.

And what would Molly say? She admired him, he knew this, but she looked up to him because he wore a façade that conveyed confidence. He knew that façade was going to be hard to maintain, so would she walk out on him too?

There were probing hands touching him, their chill searing into his skin and it was all he could do not to flinch away. He hated people touching him, John and Lestrade had learned quickly not to touch him unless absolutely necessary. Even then they made sure he knew it was going to happen. Usually he would just flinch at an unexpected touch, but on the occasional bad day he would hit whoever made contact with him. He didn't do it on purpose; it would just happen. Mycroft was not the touching kind of person, so he had never proved a problem for Sherlock.

The touches of his friends were one thing, but these people were strangers, their touches cold yet intimate. The detective did not want to deal with this, so he went to his mind palace. It had served him as a safe haven on many occasions and he was sure it could help him again.

Once in his mind palace he was no longer aware of the touches—much to his relief—but voices reverberated off the stone walls and marble floors. He presumed it was the voices of the doctor and the nurses making their way into his subconscious, so he ignored them. It was easy enough to do. As the world's only consulting detective he had to drown out people's idiotic ramblings on a daily basis.

Walking up the stairs, he relished in the feel of the smooth wood of the banister under his fingertips. Being in hospital was dull, so he was heading to a room he rarely visited, at the top of the stairs at the very end of the corridor. That was where he kept the best, most interesting cases he encountered. And by best he meant the ones he could not solve. It wasn't a large room, as it didn't have to be, but it was a fascinating room. He only really visited it when there was a serious lack of cases. But it was also good in situations which made him uncomfortable, as he could lose himself in it easily, rifling through old evidence and relishing in the brain work.

Finally he made it; his mind palace was vast, so sometimes it could take a while to get where he wanted to go. Digging deep into his pocket he pulled out a brass key. Sometimes if he didn't leave the rooms locked information could get mixed up, and therefore finding it again could take a while. Musty air washed over him, he smiled and stepped in. There was a large window which took up the most of one wall but he kept the curtains closed at all times. Instead he worked by artificial light. If he looked out the windows of his mind palace he would see the real world, and when he went into his room of cold cases he did not want any of the distractions the real world would provide.

~0~

Dr. Janssen scribbled something on the chart before closing it. There were scars on Sherlock's arms that any medical staff treating him should be aware of. It could affect how he mentally reacted to the treatments. "Right then Mr Holmes, we are done. It's getting late, so I think we will stop with the tests for today. I'll get you booked for an MRI before we do your lumbar puncture in the morning. We just want to check it is safe for you to have the procedure. No reason to think it isn't; we just like to err on the side of caution whenever possible." There was no reply; in fact, Sherlock did not even look as if he had even registered that the doctor had been talking. The doctor exchanged a confused look with the two nurses before crouching down at the young man's side. "Mr. Holmes, are you alright?" he asked, speaking louder than he had before. There was still no reply or even indication he had heard Dr. Janssen's voice.

"Carol," he said looking up at the blonde nurse to his right. "Could you go and get the other Mr. Holmes? We need to see if this is something that occurs regularly." The nurse nodded before heading quickly out of the room. "Mr. Holmes, if you can hear me I need some indication that you can," he tried again with yet again no response. Concerned, he pulled his penlight out and flicked it over Sherlock's open eyes. "Pupil response is normal," he commented out loud. "Help me get him back into his gown and dressing gown so we can lie him down," he said, turning to the other nurse. She nodded her head and picked the gown off the drawers next to her. Just as they were lying him down, Carol and Sherlock's three visitors entered the room, causing Dr. Janssen to glare. "I thought I said just to bring Mr. Holmes," he said in frustration. Carol started a little at the reprimand; she had never heard the doctor talk like that before, but she relaxed slightly when he apologised a few moments later.

"I am sorry," he commented sincerely. "I just don't want my patient getting too overwhelmed."

"They insisted…" started the nurse before being interrupted by Mycroft.

"She said there is something wrong with my brother," said the elder Holmes. His voice was calm but John could hear the worry beneath it.

"Um, yes Mr. Holmes. I'm not entirely sure what it is but it must have happened during the physical."

"What do you mean 'must have'?" Mycroft demanded, beginning to question the competence of the man in charge of his brother's care.

"Well, he was silent while we were doing everything. At first he was flinching away from us and then he stopped about half of the way through. He was still responding when we asked him to do things like lifting his arms. But when I tried to talk to him afterwards there was no indication he had even heard me. Has anything like this happened before?"

Both Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged knowing looks and John looked at them with a mixture of worry and confusion. "What's going on?" he demanded.

"Mind palace," replied Lestrade slowly and sadly. "He has gone to his mind palace; that is what we presume anyway, he never tells us what happens when he goes like this."

"No," replied John. "I have seen him go to his mind palace, it doesn't look like this. He moves his hands about, and he is talking. He does not go, like… catatonic or whatever the hell this is."

"He gets like this is situations where he feels trapped, that is probably the best way to describe it," Mycroft replied, his eyes never leaving the thin form of his little brother. "This is all speculation, he has never actually talked about this to anyone you must understand. We believe that he can go deep into his mind palace as a means of escape; he's never there for more than six hours. It hasn't happened in a while either. This has happened once since you moved in with him John, and that was when you were away in Ireland. No matter what he says to you do not underestimate what you mean to him Dr. Watson."

Both of the doctors stood gaping at the elder Holmes. John because he had never heard a Holmes being so sentimental and Dr. Janssen because he had absolutely no idea what the men were talking about. All he managed to really pick up on was that his patient had gone like this before and the men who knew about it did not seem particularly concerned, just saddened.

"So is he okay?" Dr. Janssen asked, picking up Sherlock's chart ready to write the incident down. Mycroft looked up and smiled insincerely.

"As far as this incident is concerned doctor, yes he is fine," Mycroft replied. Quickly the doctor scribbled something down, nodding to the nurses to indicate that they could leave.

"I am going to perform a lumber puncture on your brother tomorrow, Mr. Holmes. I did plan on it tonight, but I think it might just prove too stressful for him. This procedure necessitates that he has an MRI beforehand to make sure the procedure is safe, so I will book him in and let you know what time it is scheduled for."

"What is it you are looking for?" Mycroft asked, taking a pocket watch out of his jacket and flicking it open. He was the very picture of nonchalance.

"He had an unexplained seizure and likely has some form of cancer; we need to check to see if anything has made it into his cerebrospinal fluid. If it has, we will need to start treatment as fast as possible to prevent any permanent damage."

"Thank you Dr. Janssen, you have been very helpful. You may leave now." The doctor nodded. He did not like the way he had just been dismissed, but he was very much aware that he was not dealing with people who could be considered normal, so he would make allowances. He was about to step out the door before he remembered something.

"One last thing Mr. Holmes, I would like to refer him to a psychiatrist. This," he said gesturing to Sherlock lying still in the hospital bed, "whatever it is he is doing right now to escape, it's not good. It does not indicate good mental health. I think if he spoke to someone it might help." John and Lestrade smirked, they couldn't help it, and Mycroft waved his hand as if to say 'go ahead'.

"If you think it would help then you are welcome to try. Sherlock is not the talkative type however, and I assure you he will simply bulldoze over whoever you refer him to. They will likely need therapy after."

Dr. Janssen nodded and left the room. He was going to take that as permission to refer the younger Holmes. He was sure the elder Holmes was merely exaggerating his brother's behaviour. If Sherlock didn't want to talk to the psychiatrist then he didn't have to. Therapy was worth a try anyway, it could make Sherlock's treatment a hell of a lot easier.

~0~

It was five hours later that Sherlock re-emerged from what they assumed was his mind palace. Lestrade had gone, saying he had to go back to the Yard to fill in a report and then he was going to go home and sleep as he started work at six the following morning. Mycroft had left a couple of hours later, having been called back into the office, but he did first ask if John was alright, and then made sure he knew he was under no obligation to stay with Sherlock. John knew he was under no obligation and he knew it would not be feasible to sleep in a hospital chair every night. But just while nobody was sure what was happening he wanted to be there for his friend.

At about one in the morning he had a bit of a guilt ridden conversation with Mrs. Hudson. She had called, asking if he knew where Sherlock was. John could have hit himself, as far as she was concerned he was still staying at Harry's. Apparently she had stayed up waiting for him to come in, thinking John was still away, and was worried when she didn't hear anything from him. She also wanted to know if she should make him something to eat for when he came in. John smiled at how much she seemed to care for his younger friend. Of course he explained everything to her—well, not everything: he didn't explain the possibility of cancer. He just told her he was in hospital but he was doing okay, and that he was staying the night in Sherlock's room. Once he had explained, Mrs. Hudson told him she thought he wasn't looking well earlier and then scolded John for not keeping her informed and told him he must tell her when he found out anything else. Her voice softened before hanging up, telling John if he needed anything just to give her a ring and that she was planning on dropping by at about ten in the morning.

When Sherlock finally re-emerged from his mind John was half asleep, feet propped up on Sherlock's bed, arms folded and head bent forward so his chin was resting against his chest. But when Sherlock started laughing gleefully his army training kicked in and he jumped out of his chair, wide awake. It took him a moment to realise what he was hearing and it definitely was not what he expected. But he lived with Sherlock Holmes; he had learned to expect the unexpected. "Sherlock! What is it?" he asked loudly, voice threaded with concern.

"I solved it John," he said, smiling up at his best friend. "The cold case, I worked on it for weeks and I couldn't solve it. But then I looked through the witness statements, and now I know, you need to call Lestrade." The detective tried to pull himself up but his body seemed to remember that it was actually unwell and he collapsed back against the pillow. All the glee that had been spread across his face quickly washed away, leaving him with a grimace of both pain and frustration.

"Talk to me, mate," John said, sitting back down and pulling his chair closer to the bed. He just hoped that none of the nurses heard the commotion outside; he felt Sherlock needed some privacy at that moment.

"There was a case, years and years ago, before I met you. It was a particularly interesting serial killer. I worked on it for a couple of months but I couldn't solve it. Lestrade made me drop it; he said I was wearing myself down with it and that he needed me on other cases. Everyone else had given up on it, but I've solved it John, I've solved it." It looked like Sherlock was going to try and get up again so John pressed his shoulder gently to stop him, and Sherlock shied away from the touch.

"I'm sorry Sherlock but you need to rest, you're sick." Before Sherlock could protest John carried on talking. "How could you solve it, I mean you haven't got any of the evidence available?" Sherlock shot John a withering look, if hadn't been for the hospital bed John wouldn't have known there was anything wrong with him at that moment.

"I looked through the evidence before Lestrade put it away."

"There must be quite a lot of it though, nobody could remember that much in so much detail after several years, not even you." Sherlock smirked, he knew John was perfectly aware of his memory capabilities, but he wouldn't call John out on it since he liked the attention. He tapped his head and smiled.

"Mind palace John, it's all in there."

"Is that where you have been all this time, your mind palace?" Sherlock nodded in confirmation. "Normally when you're there though you can talk to people, you don't like it, but you do. This time you didn't hear what anyone was saying to you." John tried to sound as casual as he could, if Sherlock knew he was prying he would probably stop talking all together. Frankly the doctor was astonished Sherlock had told him as much as he had. His mind palace was immensely private to him; he was probably worried if he told anyone too much about it then it would be ruined.

Sherlock shrugged at John's comment. "I was in the cold case room; it is a long way from the entrance, the further I am away the less likely it is I will consciously hear what is said to me." John nodded, so apparently Mycroft and Lestrade had been right.

Sherlock frowned; he wasn't sure why he was divulging all of this to John. People were lucky if he told them that his mind palace existed, he had never even given anyone the slightest indication of what it was like inside before. But John asked and he just told him and he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

A few moments of silence passed between the two friends, they both looked up at each other at the same time and John smirked. "What is it?" Sherlock asked, drawing his eyebrows together as he tried to figure out what John found so amusing.

"Oh um, no, it's nothing really. It's just you should have seen that doctor's face; he had no idea what was going on. Well, neither did I for that matter, but he looked like he thought Mycroft was going to have him shot." This caused Sherlock to chuckle in response and John joined it, it felt normal.

A few moments later the laughter was cut short as Sherlock descended into a short-lived coughing fit quickly followed by a big yawn. Once again John became painfully aware of the purple smudges and the large bags under Sherlock's eyes. He smiled sadly at his friend. "Get some sleep mate."

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm not tired."

"Of course you're not. But try and get some sleep anyway, tomorrow will be busy. You're scheduled for an MRI." At this, Sherlock visibly tensed, but John pretended not to notice.

"What time is it at?"

"I'm not sure actually, I'll go and ask someone. I'll be back in a minute." He slid his chair backwards and stood up, pulling his shirt straight. He fought to suppress a yawn, he was exhausted and sleeping in a plastic chair just wasn't helping on that front. As quietly as he could he slipped out of the room and took a few moments to compose himself. Seeing Sherlock like that, so obviously weak but fighting to hide it was just not natural and it was a sight he would never forget. And at the mention of the MRI, he'd seen how Sherlock's muscles tense and how his relaxed expression dropped off his face to be replaced by one of cold indifference. It could only mean one thing; Sherlock was afraid but was battling to hide it. And if Sherlock Holmes was afraid, then it could be nothing good that would follow.

When John returned to the room ten minutes later, coffee in hand, Sherlock was fast asleep.

~0~

At 7:30 Sherlock was gently awoken by a nurse who had placed a tray of food on the table next to the bed. All it bore was two slices of toast and a cup of tea. Even the scent of the toast made Sherlock feel nauseous, and he swallowed as bile threatened to crawl its way up his throat. "You're scheduled for an MRI at nine and then a lumbar puncture at twelve, Mr. Holmes. I'm afraid you won't be allowed to eat anything else after this until the procedure has been carried out." Sherlock glared, she was overly cheery and it made his head hurt. He looked around desperately for John. He had gone, but his jacket was still draped over the chair, so he'd probably gone to the cafeteria for breakfast or to the toilet. Speaking of which, going to the toilet probably wasn't such a bad idea. But the nurse was already setting out the tray in front of him; he needed to get rid of her.

It didn't take much really; she was a student nurse on placement who had obviously been given the easy job of delivering food to the patients. Going by her age and relative level of competency, he'd guess she was in her third year, but still, she had very little experience and therefore little experience of less cooperative patients. He looked her up and down and smirked. "Does your boyfriend know you're pregnant?" he asked casually and she looked up at him sharply.

"I am not pregnant."

"Oh, that is where you are wrong. I'd say you are at least three months pregnant and have been suffering regular morning sickness, so there is no way you don't know. You denied it though, rather emphatically, which indicates to me you are ashamed. This means that your boyfriend is not the father." The student nurse flinched as if she had been struck and Sherlock smirked, knowing he had hit the nail on the head. "Hmm, definitely not the father. What does he do, your boyfriend? I'm going to go with navy, something in the armed forces anyway, spending long periods of time away from you. You got lonely, yes; that is definitely it. And what are your parents going to say, they're traditionalists aren't they? Obvious. And your boyfriend is going to know you have been sleeping with someone else too, quite the predicament you've gotten yourself into. But why don't you abort the child? You obviously don't believe that abortion is right. It amuses me that you uphold such morals but it is in fact your lack of morals that got you into this situation in the first place."

The nurse gave him a look which was full of anger, but the upset that she was feeling due to her predicament was evident, simmering just underneath the rage, ready to emerge at any moment. Carefully she put down what she was doing and walked to the door. "I am going to request a more qualified and experienced nurse work with you," she said flatly before leaving the room.

Sherlock didn't really care what she said. Carefully he pulled himself out of bed, knowing that he was still unsteady on his feet, tipped his toast into the bin, and slowly made his way to the adjacent bathroom. He didn't realise how much he needed to use the toilet, but when he thought about it, he hadn't gone since he had taken his seizure the day before.

While he was going he had to lean against the wall; he was feeling incredibly dizzy and very sick, but it wouldn't be long before he got to lie down again. Not that he would admit it to anyone, but he was already feeling exhausted from the day's activity.

When he was done he flushed the toilet and turned to wash his hands. He did not make it to the sink. Suddenly his world exploded into a mixture of blurred colours that seemed to swirl around his head. His head seemed to be pounding, but thankfully the pain only lasted a few seconds before he fell unconscious to the floor.

~0~

John hurried back from the cafeteria. He had only intended to get a coffee, but when he got there he remembered how hungry he was, not that the food was particularly appetising. In the end he practically inhaled an omelette before going to find somewhere he could get a toothbrush. He was looking for about a quarter of an hour before he realised that unless he was a patient there was no way he was getting to clean his teeth that day. So he grabbed another cup of coffee before heading back up to Sherlock's room. His MRI was booked for about nine that morning, so the nurses were probably waking him up. When John had left his room he was still well out of it.

Once he made it back to Sherlock's room, he found the bed messy and empty. There was an empty plate and a full cup of tea sitting on the table by his bed, which just did not seem right. If anything, he would have expected it to be the other way around. "Are you in the toilet Sherlock?" John shouted, dropping down into the seat in which he had spent the night. There was no reply, but John did not pursue the matter, he knew some people didn't like talking when they were in the bathroom, not that Sherlock seemed to have a particular problem talking to him when he was in the toilet. Either way he sat there for a few minutes but grew worried when he heard no sound from the bathroom. Standing up he headed over to the door. "Are you alright in there Sherlock?" he asked, when there was no reply he tried the door, fortunately finding it unlocked.

Immediately he ran to his friend's side, he was lying on the floor surrounded by blood. It didn't look like he had hit his head on the way down, miraculously, but there was a lot of blood pouring steadily from his nose. Quickly, his fingers found the pulse point on Sherlock's neck and he was relieved to find it steady. As soon as he was sure Sherlock was not about to die, he ran to the door and shouted for help. In less than a minute the room was buzzing with activity and John could only stand by and watch as Sherlock's limp body was man-handled back into bed like a rag doll. How he would hate it if he were still conscious.


	6. Not All News is Good News

"Mr. Acerbi, it is 3am and I am not a patient man," Mycroft said in an icy tone of voice, causing a shiver to run down the spine of the man on the other end of the video call. It was almost imperceptible, but Mycroft, being a Holmes, noticed. There was a knock at his office door and he looked at Anthea, who was poking her head around the door and he waved her in. "As I was saying," he continued. "I am not a patient man, you will release our men and put them on the first flight back to London, and if I get so much as a reason to believe that they have been harmed there will be hell to pay." The foul looking man laughed and looked straight into the eyes of Mycroft, whose expression remained stony and unwavering.

"And why would I do that, Mr. Holmes?" the Italian asked, smirking, believing that he had the upper hand.

"Because I know your reputation and I know that if I do not see our men within twenty four hours you will have killed them in an attempt to extract information. If this happens I will order for your—what shall we call it—company to be destroyed. And if you flee you will be killed, it is as simple as that. We cannot risk you actually gleaning information from our men."

"Your Prime Minister will never authorise it, not when you might be killing British citizens." At this Mycroft gave a sickly sweet smile which made the Italian shudder, that expression was terrifying.

"The Prime Minister is not the only one with the authority to permit such action." Mycroft glanced up at Anthea then back at the computer screen. "If you will excuse me a moment, Mr. Acerbi," Mycroft said before turning off the microphone without waiting for a reply. The man's indignant protests could still be heard but the elder Holmes ignored them.

"Yes Anthea?" he asked pleasantly.

"Sorry to interrupt sir, I received a text from Dr. Watson. It said, 'Sherlock was awake, you were right about the mind palace. Gone back to sleep, no need to come in.'" At this Mycroft nodded his head.

"Thank you, wait here a moment, I just need to finish off with this." She stood back slightly, hands behind her back as Mycroft turned the microphone back on.

"If you are quite finished," the elder Holmes interrupted the angry Italian. "Remember what I said about what happens if our men are not on the next available flight? I was deadly serious, emphasis on the word deadly. It was a pleasure talking to you Mr. Acerbi but I hope you will forgive me for saying that I hope our paths do not meet again. Good morning." Anthea's curiosity was almost overflowing, but she held in her questions, asking questions which didn't need to be asked was not part of her job description.

"Do you want me to get the car ready for you sir?" she asked calmly, determinedly keeping her face neutral.

"Yes, thank you. And if John Watson calls at any point put him straight through, you don't need to answer the call first." She nodded and left the room silently. Mycroft downed the rest of his coffee before putting on his suit jacket and coat and heading down to the car. He'd try and catch a few hours' sleep before going over to the hospital.

~0~

After years of having a minor position in the British government Mycroft could go from fast asleep to battle ready in a matter of seconds, especially when he was awoken by the sound of his mobile phone ringing. When it did ring Mycroft was instantly awake. It was John Watson, which could only mean there was an update on his brother. When he first met the army doctor and told him he worried about Sherlock constantly, he had not been exaggerating. Part of what made his position so attractive was the ease with which he could keep tabs on his brother who seemed to lack the ability to stay out of trouble. But now he was worrying about his brother more than ever, and for once it wasn't because of his reckless behaviour or his self-destructive streak. For once it was simply his body betraying him.

"Hello Dr. Watson," he answered without a hint of the weariness which would normally mar a person's voice if they had suddenly been awoken.

"Mycroft." As soon as Mycroft heard the worry in the doctor's voice he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, he already knew he needed to get down to the hospital. "We're not sure what has happened but I think you might want to come down. Sherlock collapsed in the bathroom this morning; thankfully he didn't hit his head or anything. But they're getting his MRI done early because they think whatever it is he has is progressing more rapidly now."

"Right, I'll be down there soon. Thank you for calling me." He hung up; he really had fought to keep his voice steady there. He debated forgoing a shower but soon decided against and switched the shower on. Fifteen minutes later he emerged, fully dressed, and he had to fight the urge to run down to his car. For once he was going to drive; his driver would simply go too slowly.

~0~

John was sat in the waiting room, coffee clasped in his hands, and he was tapping his foot agitatedly. All he wanted to do was burst in to check on Sherlock but he knew it was an idiotic thing to do; they'd have to start the MRI all over again if he did that. It didn't stop him wanting to though, he was so worried it was making him feel sick, and he was beginning to feel the effects of spending the night in a plastic chair with very little sleep. He knew that he would not be able to do it for another night, not unless Sherlock really needed him to.

He felt an odd sense of relief when he saw Mycroft striding in, even if he did have the audacity to look as if there was nothing out of the ordinary going on. That did annoy John slightly but he didn't say anything, the simple fact that Mycroft was here and not at his office spoke volumes about the concern he was feeling for his little brother.

"He is just getting the scan done now and then they will take him back to his room to get the lumbar puncture done. They're working quickly, so they are obviously worried." Mycroft nodded and gave John a smile, it was an odd smile. It was like the sickly sweet one he gave when he was trying to be diplomatic but there was definitely something akin to sadness underlying it.

"Thank you for staying with him last night Dr. Watson, and for keeping me informed."

"You know Mycroft we have known each other quite some time now, you don't need to keep calling me Dr. Watson."

"Yes, quite," Mycroft replied disparagingly. "Anyway, he talked to you about going to his mind palace did he?" Mycroft didn't even bother to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

"Well he didn't say much but that isn't surprising, he is Sherlock after all. He just told me that is where he goes. Speaking of which, we should really get Greg on the phone, he said something about solving a case but he was a bit worked up at the time, it didn't make a lot of sense."

~0~

"Mr. Holmes, can you hear me?" a tinny sounding voice asked. Sherlock blinked his eyes as he awoke and emitted a deep sounding groan, why did his body ache so much? A great expanse of white stretched out above him and he tried to sit up from his horizontal position but he could not, his head was strapped down. As a detective he had been kidnapped before and woken up strapped down to something, but this was different. It smelt different and there was a loud hum resonating around him. Flicking his eyes from side to side he realised he was in some kind of white tube, it was most curious, and then suddenly it clicked. He was in the MRI machine and it was at this point that he felt his heart beginning to pound.

"Mr. Holmes," said the tinny voice again. It was loud but he was not paying much attention to it. "I need you to stay calm and remain still. I know that this must be quite disorientating for you, but we are almost done with the scan. If you move too much now we will need to start again." The tinny voice made Sherlock angry, what the hell was the owner of the voice thinking? That he was trying to panic? The man was an idiot.

But the idiot was right, they were almost done and a couple of minutes later the surface which Sherlock was lying on slid out from the machine and someone appeared from a side room and released him from the straps which were holding him down. "I am very sorry you had to wake up like that," the man said. So he was the idiot with the tinny voice which didn't sound quite so tinny now it wasn't coming through a speaker. "I am Dr. Sawyer; we're just going to take you back up to your room now. Dr. Janssen is on his way in; when he has arrived the lumbar puncture will be performed."

At that moment someone appeared with a wheelchair and Sherlock glared angrily at it. "I'm not getting in that," he said in a voice which left little room for argument. But as Sherlock had earlier deduced, Dr. Sawyer was an idiot and so did try and argue with the consulting detective.

"Mr. Holmes, I know you might not like it, but I am afraid the only way you are getting about this hospital is in this chair, it is not safe for you to walk about I am afraid."

"Fine, then I will stay here," Sherlock replied, lying back down on the machine. Dr. Sawyer looked gormlessly at his uncooperative patient.

"You can't stay here though; other patients need to use the machine."

"That's okay; I'll stay on the floor."

"Mr. Holmes, I cannot allow you to do that, you need to go to your room."

At this, Sherlock sat up, a manipulative smile plastered on his face. As he rose he gripped hard onto the sides of the surface he was lying on as a wave of dizziness swept over him, but he ignored it. He wanted to win this battle.

"Well then, doctor, it looks like you have a bit of a dilemma. I will happily return to my room on foot, but otherwise I am staying right here in this room. You will not get me into that damn chair unless you sedate, me which I suggest you do not do. My brother would not be awfully happy." After saying this Sherlock lay back down again.

The doctor looked helplessly at the nurse who had the wheelchair. "Is Dr. Watson still in the waiting room?" he asked and the nurse nodded. "Go and fetch him then, see if he can talk some sense into him." Sherlock really did not like this man. But at least John wouldn't make him suffer the indignity of a wheelchair; he might try and get him to, but he would only push slightly.

Moments later John ran into the room, quickly followed by Mycroft, as they were under the illusion that something had happened to Sherlock. When John saw the detective with his eyes open he stopped and let out a sigh of relief. "Are you alright mate?" he asked, walking to Sherlock's side.

"I'm fine John."

The army doctor could tell that Sherlock was anything but fine but he did not pursue the matter, with Sherlock he learned to pick his battles. Even if he could win an argument with Sherlock, it normally was not even worth the grief. "Well if you are fine why were Mycroft and I called through here?" At this Sherlock looked around frantically.

"What the hell is Mycroft doing here?" he demanded, and this worried John more than anything else. The fact that Sherlock had not noticed his brother's presence was nothing short of terrifying. He was Sherlock Holmes and he simply had not noticed.

"I was concerned, Sherlock," Mycroft said, walking up to join Sherlock by John's side. At this the detective scoffed.

"Sure you were. You're just worried that if something happens to me you won't be able to make me do all your legwork." Sherlock was angry and John knew they needed to calm him down. An angry Sherlock definitely was not an amiable Sherlock.

"That is enough Sherlock," John scolded causing both of the Holmes to look up at him in surprise. "Now what is wrong?" he asked more kindly, trying hard to keep his temper in check.

"This idiot wants me to get in a wheelchair," Sherlock growled.

"Sherlock," both John and Mycroft said warningly whilst Dr. Sawyer and the nurse watched, utterly bewildered.

"What?" he asked indignantly. "I'm telling the truth, the man is stupid. How he qualified as a doctor eludes me completely." John found himself stifling a chuckle at this comment but managed to suppress it, just.

"Sorry Dr. Sawyer," he said turning to face the man. "Don't take it personally, he insults everyone."

"Everyone who deserves it," the detective muttered under his breath. John ignored him. "I don't know what he has threatened to do if you try to make him get in that chair, but trust me, he doesn't make idle threats. I'll walk him up and we'll keep the wheelchair with us just in case."

"For goodness sake," Dr. Sawyer growled in frustration. "This is madness, he collapsed this morning and he could easily collapse again. It is not worth the risk."

"Where would you like me to lie down then?" Sherlock asked yawning. "Would it be more convenient for me to lie here or on the floor? I wouldn't like to get in the way." At this John did laugh and Sherlock smiled at him. It was a weak smile; he did not want to admit how much this argument was wearing him out, and he hoped that it wasn't far from where he was to his room.

"Fine, fine," the doctor said in frustration. "Nurse Michelle will take the chair up if you need it. If anything happens, I will not be held responsible for it." With that he left and John helped Sherlock into a sitting position with only a mild amount of protesting from the detective. "You're not going to make the staff's job easy are you?" he asked kindly and Sherlock smiled wearily.

"If they don't like me they'll treat me more efficiently to get rid of me faster." John smiled. That sounded like a very Sherlockian theory.

~0~

Ten minutes later a very disgruntled Sherlock was wheeled into his room with a bemused John and a bored looking Mycroft. "Dr. Sawyer will be feeling really rather smug right now," John commented, thinking back on Sherlock's poor attempt to make it back to his room on foot. He felt a little bad for baiting his sick best friend, but he couldn't resist. And anyway, Sherlock would appreciate the dose of normality even if he wouldn't admit it.

"I don't want to see that blundering idiot of a doctor ever again," Sherlock ranted and John smiled, he knew the man was only angry because the doctor had been right. But perhaps it would be better to keep the two of them separate, in the brief time he had seen the doctor and Sherlock interacting Dr. Sawyer did not appear particularly capable of working with the younger, and admittedly difficult, man.

"If he so much as touches me ever again I cannot be held responsible for my actions… don't touch me John, I am capable of getting out of a damn chair by myself!" Out of the corner of his eye John saw Mycroft shaking his head in despair, but his attention was quickly diverted to Sherlock. He'd descended into a coughing fit which had him doubled over as his lungs threatened to expel themselves by the sheer force of his wheezing. John could see each of Sherlock's vertebrae through the dressing gown; they rose far too prominently under the thin material. He was thin, far too thin.

John went to drop by his friend's side to make sure he was okay, but was held back by a firm hand on his shoulder. He looked round to see Mycroft shaking his head. It went against every single one of his instincts, but he stood back, allowing Mycroft to stand in front of his friend. The man waited patiently until Sherlock's coughs subsided. "Look at me Sherlock," Mycroft ordered sternly; it was the only tone that had any hope of working on the detective. Thankfully Sherlock had no energy to argue in his weakened state. His lips were tinged a disturbing shade of blue and John gulped at the sight, even though his lips quickly changed back to their original colour. John really hoped Sherlock was not catching another cold like he seemed to be, that was the last thing he needed when he was fighting off something else.

Mycroft stepped forward and offered Sherlock his arm, but Sherlock shook his head, still breathing heavily from his coughing fit. "You will need to accept help very soon brother," the elder Holmes said sadly, but conceded to Sherlock's wishes by stepping back next to John. It was all John could do to stop himself dashing forwards whilst he watched Sherlock struggle back into bed. But he made it, eventually. John resumed the position he had taken up the night before and Mycroft left to go back to the office.

~0~

"I hear you had a bit of an exciting morning today Mr. Holmes," Dr. Janssen said as he opened the packet containing the needle. It was large and it tended to scare his patients when they saw it. But with the local anaesthetic, it was never as bad as they anticipated.

Sherlock did not reply, which was no real surprise, but he kept on talking; it often helped relax his, but also he himself hated a silent room. "Now Mr. Holmes, we have given you the local anaesthetic and we've cleaned the area the needle is going to go in. I am going to need you to stay curled in that position for a little bit longer, and you are going to need to keep very still I'm afraid. This shouldn't take too long. Now, I'm going to have to touch you at this point."

Sherlock was barely listening; he had very little interest in what was going on around him. If he thought about it too much then he would start to freak out, and if he thought about the way John had looked at him when he had asked him to leave. He definitely did not want to think about that.

Sherlock felt a sting at the base of his spine, and then there was an odd feeling of pressure. He could feel foreign fingers against his skin and the contact made him feel ill; it was all he could do not to be sick. Instead he began to think over some past cases, but didn't retreat into his mind palace even though he desperately wanted to. He got the feeling that John would not like it, and for some reason that meant a lot to him.

~0~

John Watson was not a man who enjoyed waiting for things, yet he found himself, for the second time that day, waiting whilst doctors did something to his friend behind closed doors. Except this time it was worse, it had not been the doctor that insisted he leave, rather Sherlock himself and that stung more than it should have. If he were honest with himself he knew that it was expected, Sherlock did not like being seen vulnerable, and right now he could not get a whole lot more vulnerable. But he had held out some hope that perhaps Sherlock would let him stay, but it was Sherlock so he did not.

The doctor turned when someone sat down next to him and smiled when he saw it was his landlady. "How are you doing John?" she asked kindly. "You look like you haven't slept well."

"That is one way of putting it I suppose," he replied.

"What's going on?" she asked. She knew there was something John hadn't told her the night before, but she hadn't wanted to pry then. "I know there is something you're not telling me." John shook his head; sometimes he forgot that at time Mrs. Hudson was actually quite perceptive, especially when it came to her boys.

"The doctor thinks that it could be something serious but we don't know what it is. They're just doing some more tests at the moment." She nodded and patted his knee affectionately but didn't say anything else; she could tell when John didn't want to talk anymore.

~0~

When Dr. Janssen and the nurses finally emerged John stood, eager to go and see his friend and Mrs. Hudson followed suit. "Dr. Watson," the older doctor greeted. "It went reasonably well, but I don't think he is in much of a mood for talking, just to warn you."

"Ah, there is no difference to usual there then," he responded smiling. Dr. Janssen smiled and left, a vial of clear fluid held in one hand. It just seemed so wrong, that fluid belonged in Sherlock's spine but it wasn't. It was in a vial, held by a doctor, going to be tested. It was going to be tested because Sherlock was sick, Sherlock was sick with something which was probably cancer. Cancer could kill his best friend and crap why was he thinking about this now? Why couldn't it all sink in when he was alone? And why the hell was it a vial of clear fluid that set it all off? Crap, crap, he didn't think he could cope with losing Sherlock, the selfish idiot better not go ahead and die on him, or else he would revive him just to kill him again.

He felt a gentle hand on his arm which drew him back to reality. He blinked a few timed before meeting the worried expression on Mrs. Hudson's face. "Do you need to sit down dear?" she asked kindly." He shook himself and took a deep breath.

"No Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine."

"I really think you should go back to Baker Street and get some sleep; it'd do you a world of good."

"I'll go back this evening, promise," he said, smiling, and she couldn't help but smile back.

Together they entered Sherlock's room to find him stretched out on his back, fast asleep or at least pretending he was. Either way, he was getting some of the rest that he desperately needed, but he stayed that way through the whole of the afternoon and into the evening. Mrs. Hudson and John spoke quietly next to the sleeping man. At one point a nurse had come in with a meal for Sherlock and left it for when he woke up; she was very nice and brought Mrs. Hudson and John a cup of tea.

Every so often other nurses would pop in and check on the patient but other than that they remained undisturbed, Sherlock did not so much as stir the whole time, which was both a good thing and a bit of a concern. Eventually Mrs. Hudson left, leaving John behind even though she had tried very hard to get John to return to Baker Street with her. He promised he would return later and she was holding him to it.

~0~

"John?" came a weak voice from the bed, and the doctor looked over the newspaper he had been aimlessly flicking through. There was nothing interesting in it, but sitting in a room with a sleeping Sherlock could only keep him entertained for so long. "John, I want to leave," Sherlock pleaded and he sounded so young and innocent, it ripped John's heart to shreds.

"I'm sorry mate; I don't think you'll be out of here for a while." There was no point in trying to soften the blow, even barely awake and disorientated, Sherlock was worryingly perceptive and he would only be more upset if he thought John was trying to deceive him. The detective looked his friend up and down imploringly and once he had deduced that he was telling the truth he curled up on his side away from John. The doctor tried to get Sherlock to talk to him but of course, Sherlock refused.

~0~

At about seven Lestrade appeared, still in uniform, and he shot a concerned glance at the still curled up figure on the bed. "Everything alright?" he asked worriedly.

"Honestly I have no idea, he's been like that for just over an hour now," John replied softly. "At least he is resting, that will help him recover faster."

"Speaking of sleeping when was the last time you got any? You look like hell."

"Thanks," John replied, chuckling.

"Seriously, go home. I'll stay with him tonight; I'm not working tomorrow unless something truly terrible comes up."

"I don't…"

"John," Lestrade said warningly and it was what finally did it for John.

"Fine, fine I'm going," he conceded and stood up, popping his back as he stretched. "Text me if anything happens. Oh, I almost forgot. Earlier he was going on about some cold case, seems to think he has solved it. Just thought you would like to know," he said, heading towards the door. "And thanks, by the way, Greg, I'll be back in the morning." Lestrade waved as the doctor left and then picked up the newspaper John had been looking at. This could be a long and boring night.

~0~

Lestrade had only been there half an hour when his phone went off, he pulled it out and read the text before growling in frustration. They were calling him back into the office. Sherlock was still asleep, and it shouldn't take too long, so there was no need to call John back. He did fire a text off to Mycroft though; if something did happen while he was out he didn't want to incur the wrath of the elder Holmes.

~0~

When Sherlock woke he was alone, and for some reason it made him uncomfortable, but he couldn't fathom why. Where was John? Panic suddenly surged up from within him, John had left and perhaps he wasn't coming back. However, Sherlock quickly suppressed the panic, at least outwardly; the serious look on Dr. Janssen's face when he entered did nothing to quell the panic within him. Gently he shut the door behind him and sat on the plastic chair beside Sherlock's bed. Sherlock simply looked at him, not bothering to try and sit up, but the doctor didn't seem to mind.

"I have news Mr. Holmes," he said kindly. and in that instant Sherlock knew that something was definitely wrong.

"Obviously," he responded automatically. "And it is not good."

"You are quite right there. Do you want me to call anyone so they can be here with you?" he asked. Sherlock was worried, that was never a good look to see on a doctor's face, and for that reason Sherlock did not lose his temper and tell the doctor to spit it out.

"Um, no thank you," he responded, sounding uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

"Very well. We found something in your cerebrospinal fluid, we will need to perform a bone marrow biopsy for the official diagnosis, but I can tell you now that you have something called acute lymphoblastic leukaemia. I'm afraid since it has progressed into the spinal fluid, treatment will have to start as soon as possible, so that biopsy will need to be done tonight and I will ensure that an oncologist will see you first thing in the morning. I am very sorry, this must be a lot to take in, but we are going to need to move quickly now."

Sherlock felt sick, incredibly sick. Acute forms of leukaemia did not have promising mortality rates in adults, he knew that much. And even if he did survive, it could leave his transport damaged permanently. "Do you want me to call anyone and let them know?"

"Er, no, I'll tell them myself when they come in. Actually, would you mind giving me a moment?" he asked, purposefully trying to make his voice sound pleading and it seemed to work, as Dr. Janssen acquiesced. "I'll be back down in about half an hour, I'm afraid we do need to do this biopsy tonight." And with that the doctor left leaving Sherlock alone, the word leukaemia floated ominously in the room, and feeling as if he had just been handed a death sentence. Leaning over the side of the bed Sherlock hacked up some bitter bile before curling up into himself; he could not believe that this was happening to him.


	7. Tell Me

John's hand groped about listlessly until his fingers made contact with the smooth surface of his phone. Groggily he pulled himself into a sitting position and glanced at the caller ID, it was Mycroft, which meant it was important. He had only been asleep for an hour and he desperately wanted to crawl back under the covers and sleep for an eternity. Of course he didn't do this; instead he braced himself for dealing with the elder Holmes. "What's wrong?" he asked, there was no point in beating around the bush with Mycroft, and he wouldn't be phoning unless there was something wrong.

"Sorry to wake you Dr. Watson, I was hoping that you would be able to go back to the hospital."

"Why, what's happened?" he demanded, already pulling himself out of bed and grabbing his jeans off the floor.

"Some imbecile has misplaced my brother it would seem," Mycroft said calmly. "I am informed that hospital security is searching for him now, but I was hoping you might be a little better at predicting his whereabouts than they are." There was a pause while John first took the information in and then fought the rage that boiled up within him.

"How the hell do you misplace a person?" he seethed as Mycroft listened calmly. "And where the hell was Lestrade? I left him at the hospital with Sherlock."

"Ah yes, I have called Lestrade and he is on his way. He got a text soon after you left; there was an incident at Scotland Yard which demanded his presence." The army doctor fought back his rage, he knew deep down that Lestrade would not have left Sherlock if he didn't have too; he cared about the young man too much to do that. But still, he needed someone to blame and Lestrade was his only target other than himself.

"I am having people review the CCTV footage outside the hospital to see when or if he left," Mycroft continued after deciding John wasn't going to say anything. "I am afraid that I am predisposed at the moment so will not be able to join the search, but I assure you that if he is still not found when I am free I will aid you in any way I can."

"I feel so reassured," John said sarcastically whilst fumbling with his belt, trying to do it up with only one hand and failing spectacularly. "Look, I'm going to leave you to whatever is more important than your brother's safety and I'll go deal with it myself, okay."

"Thank you Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, completely un-phased. "That is most kind of you." But John didn't hear this; he had already hung up the phone.

~0~

The taxi driver looked hesitantly in his rear-view mirror, completely nonplussed by his charge's agitated behaviour. "You alright mate?" he asked, unsure of what else he should do, the blond haired man's behaviour was a little too odd to simply ignore.

"Hm?"

"I was wondering if you were alright, you seem a bit restless."

"Yeah, I'm fine, but this is kind of an emergency though." The driver mentally hit himself; of course that was why he was moving around so much, he did ask to be taken to the hospital after all.

"Sorry mate, I'll get you there as fast as I can."

"Thanks," John replied, not really listening to the driver. But to his credit the driver did get there faster than John anticipated. Muttering a thank you under his breath, John practically threw a wad of notes at the man and told him to keep the change before jumping out of the taxi and running into the hospital.

In the foyer he met Lestrade who looked incredibly guilty, so much so that John didn't have the heart to rant at him like he had been planning on doing. Instead he simply joined the DI and a couple of the security personnel. "John, I am so sorry," Lestrade started when he saw the doctor, but John cut him off.

"We'll talk about it later, let's just find the idiot." John couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice but he did think he did admirably well considering the circumstances. He turned to look at the security guards expectantly.

"We've searched all through the hospital and we didn't find him," the shorter of the two commented regretfully. "There is a secondary search going on as we speak.

"What about outside the hospital?" Lestrade asked, his instincts as a detective beginning to kick in, temporarily masking the guilt he was feeling over leaving Sherlock by himself.

"We've looked through the CCTV footage and he has not left this hospital, which is why we are doing the secondary search. We're also reviewing the footage of other possible exits. It is highly unlikely he went out through them, but we thought we would look."

"Well, what about the roof of the hospital, can that be accessed?" Lestrade asked curiously. The two guards looked at each other and nodded slowly.

"You need a staff pass to get through that door," the taller one commented thoughtfully. "But I suppose if he stole a pass he could get access to the roof. The area doesn't have camera surveillance either." Lestrade and John exchanged knowing glances; that sounded like exactly the sort of thing Sherlock would do. "Let's go," John ordered in a tone he had rarely used since leaving the army, and it was a tone only the bravest or most foolish of men argued with. The security guards were neither brave nor foolish, so they unquestioningly led Lestrade and John into the lift.

The lift ride up to the top of the hospital was tense and silent and felt like it took a lot longer than it actually did. Nobody knew what to say, so nobody said anything, but the tension was palpable, made even worse than the faint background music that was playing and sounding far too cheery for being in a hospital. Eventually the doors opened and they had to climb a couple of flights, which eventually led them to a door, an open door through which a cool breeze blew.

"Wait here," John ordered the two security guards who once again obeyed without questioning John's authority. Both John and Lestrade walked into the cold night air, bracing themselves against the chill, and scanned the rooftop for Sherlock. At first they didn't see him, but after about ten seconds John saw him huddled in the corner of the low wall, the red end of a cigarette glowing brightly in the relative darkness. The doctor headed over and Lestrade stood back, ready to intervene if necessary. One could never be sure how things would turn out when Sherlock Holmes was involved.

"You were doing so well," John commented, leaning against the wall next to where Sherlock was with his arms crossed lightly across his chest.

"Well I've realised there is no point in trying to look after myself if my transport is going to betray me anyway." John snorted mirthlessly.

"You, look after yourself? Now there is something I would like to see." In response Sherlock put the cigarette back in his mouth and inhaled deeply, sighing in contentment just before John grabbed it from his mouth. Quickly he stubbed it out and chucked it over the side of the building before Sherlock could do anything to stop him. As a result, he got a death glare before Sherlock removed a half empty packet and a lighter from the pocket of his dressing gown. It was only then John realised Sherlock was still in his dressing gown and hospital gown; distinct shivers wracked his frame constantly. It was no surprise, John was dressed properly in a warm jacket and he was still cold.

In frustration he grabbed the cigarettes and the lighter from his friend and growled. "You haven't smoked all of these have you?" John demanded. In response Sherlock shook his head and attempted to get the packet back, quite unsuccessfully. "Well where did you get them?" he asked, his voice gradually getting louder. He was pretty sure this was the first time Sherlock had smoked in quite a while, but why he would have a half smoked pack and a lighter was beyond him.

"Nurse," Sherlock supplied unhelpfully.

"What?" John asked, now completely scandalised by the whole situation. "A nurse gave you cigarettes?"

"Not quite, don't be an idiot John," Sherlock replied sounding more like his old self, then it clicked into place.

"You stole them didn't you?" To this Sherlock smirked and John sighed long-sufferingly.

"Come on, give them back," Sherlock pleaded, once again trying to get them back off John, but he was just too weak. Getting up to the roof itself had taken a lot out of him, and he had been fighting to stay awake ever since he got up there. Now he was completely exhausted, not that he was going to tell anyone.

"No," John said exasperatedly, throwing them uncaringly over the side of the building too.

"What is the point in denying me the simple pleasures in life?" Sherlock asked in a tone which was meant to sound jovial, but there was an underlying seriousness in his voice which led John to thinking that Sherlock's wasn't actually joking.

"Come on you idiot, you're talking like you're dying."

"That's because I am."

John's expression morphed from one of mild exasperation to complete horror in less than a second, and a look came over Sherlock's face which indicated he really had not meant to say that. Slowly John crouched down next to his friend who refused to look at him directly; instead he looked at the ground by the doctor's feet. "Sherlock," John said as gently as possible, "Have you received your diagnosis?"

"It's nothing you need to worry about John," Sherlock said, hoping that the doctor would leave him alone. If he told John, then he would leave, and he wanted to put off the inevitable for as long as possible.

"What the hell do you mean it's nothing I need to worry about?" John hissed, fighting the urge to yell and tell Sherlock what an idiot he was. He was also battling the guilt which was welling up in the pit of his stomach; he had gone back to the flat and as a result Sherlock had received a diagnosis—a bad diagnosis by the sound of it—all by himself. "Of course it is something for me to worry about; you're my best friend Sherlock."

A strange look washed over Sherlock at that comment, it was one of utter confusion and it did not suit his features. Before John could say anything on the matter Lestrade, who had been observing proceedings from a distance, headed over to join the two men. "Perhaps it would be better to have this discussion indoors," Lestrade suggested kindly. Sherlock looked up at the older man, a hint of gratitude glinting in his eyes. John took a deep breath, nodded and stood up.

"I think that is a good idea, you're shivering like crazy Sherlock." Mentally slapping himself for not having done it before John slipped out of his jacket and placed it around Sherlock's shoulders; the man was freezing and John had ignored that in favour of trying to get information out of him. Some friend he was.

"Do you need help getting up?" Lestrade asked, watching as Sherlock subconsciously drew John's jacket closer around his thin, shaking frame.

"I'm not an invalid Lestrade," Sherlock replied bitterly. Neither John nor Lestrade argued with Sherlock's stubbornness, they merely stood back and allowed Sherlock to pull himself to his feet. In the end he did manage but it was a long and drawn out process, a few times he managed to get into a crouching position before his legs gave out under him and sent him crashing back onto the ground. Once they were back in the hospital room John was going to insist that he let him take a look, just to make sure he didn't cause too much damage.

In the end he did manage to get back onto his feet although his legs were shaking like those of a new born calf. Without asking him John went and ordered one of the security guards to get a wheelchair, they'd need to get him down the stairs first which would be a challenge but there was no way Sherlock would get further than that under his own steam, even if he thought he could. Meanwhile Lestrade wrapped one of Sherlock's arms around his shoulders to keep him steady, but Sherlock tried to fight against the support, almost resulting being cast to the ground once again. Luckily for him, Lestrade had a firm grasp on him and prevented him from falling, after that he didn't have the energy to fight against the DI, it was a wonder he didn't fall asleep standing up.

Somehow John and Lestrade managed to get Sherlock down the stairs and into the chair. When Sherlock did not even bother to protest being sat down John checked to see if he was feeling alright only to discover that he was already asleep, his head drooped forward so his chin rested against his chest. John chuckled, concern for his friend niggling in the back of his mind, but he ignored it. He couldn't believe that his friend was dying until he heard the diagnosis himself, he just couldn't.

~0~

"What do you suppose is wrong with him?" Lestrade asked John. They were sitting in the small hospital room which smelt strongly of antiseptic. A nurse had just been through to check on Sherlock and had bandaged his knees, which had been oozing blood and started going purple. But now they were alone and Sherlock was fast asleep, he'd slept through the whole procedure. The nurse had tried to remove John's jacket from the detective but even whilst in his fragile state and asleep, he held onto the item of clothing with an iron grip. When she had eventually given up trying he rolled over, wrapping it tightly around his body. John didn't mind, after being out in the cold so long he really needed to get himself warmed up.

"I'm not sure; Sherlock seemed to know and he seemed to think that it was going to kill him. I'm not quite sure I trust him in that though, I wouldn't put it past him to delete the difference between the common cold and malaria." He chuckled to himself but it did sound slightly hysterical and Lestrade frowned.

"John, there is no point in denying the obvious; you know what Sherlock would think of that. You know that he doesn't have something as mundane as the common cold. A cold does not cause Sherlock to fall asleep in exhaustion after going up for a visit on the roof, and you know it. There is something very wrong and you will need to accept that if you're going to be any help to him. In fact, we all need to." John nodded reluctantly; deep down he knew Lestrade was right, but this was his best friend, he didn't want to think about the fact that he had survived chasing down all those criminals only to be defeated by a disease. And he couldn't help but feel the fleeting hope that perhaps this was all simply a combination of Sherlock picking up a nasty flu virus and the neglectful way he treated his body. Lestrade didn't tell John that, despite what he said, that was what he was hoping too.

~0~

The two of them stayed silent, watching Sherlock as he slept because there was something peculiarly fascinating about it. He lay completely still, only twitching occasionally as he dreamt, with pale lips slightly parted. The worry that had almost imperceptibly been etched on his face recently was smoothed out, and for once he looked relaxed—sick, but relaxed. There was something almost childlike about him and it caused protectiveness to well up from within both Lestrade and John. They would help the admittedly strange man to recover, whatever it took.

Eventually Dr. Janssen appeared, looking slightly haggard. John remembered the long shifts he used to have to work when he worked in hospitals and felt sorry for the man standing before him. He looked like he could use some sleep but then John supposed he probably looked in a similar condition. "Ah Dr. Watson, Mr. Lestrade; I am glad you're here. Sorry it took me so long to get down here, there was a bit of a crisis that I had to deal with. Will the other Mr. Holmes be joining us?" At the mention of Mycroft John briefly considered texting him to say they had found Sherlock, but then decided not to; one of Mycroft's men had probably contacted him the moment they saw Sherlock smoking up on the rooftop.

John shook his head. "Not anytime soon anyway."

"Right, I must apologise for earlier. I came down here to fetch him for his bone marrow biopsy and he had gone. I informed…"

"Wait, wait, wait," John said, raising his hand and cutting the doctor off. "What do you mean bone marrow biopsy? He did get an official diagnosis, did he?" At this the doctor frowned.

"Sorry, I just assumed you got a chance to talk to Mr. Holmes when you found him."

"I did: he said something about dying and then refused to say anything else on the matter. I couldn't be sure if he'd been diagnosed or if it was him overreacting. Well, what is it?" John demanded; if Sherlock was indeed dying, he needed to know. And bone marrow biopsies were never a good sign.

"I'm sorry Dr. Watson, I cannot tell you. He expressed a desire to tell you himself, at a stretch I could tell direct family, but if I told you I would be violating the doctor-patient confidentiality."

John growled in the back of his throat; he knew that Dr. Janssen was right, but it didn't mean he had to like it. As a doctor he also had managed to narrow what was wrong to a few options by the symptoms and the procedures being done, but dammit he had to know for sure. When Sherlock woke up he was going to get the information out of his friend.

"Mr. Holmes?" Dr. Janssen said loudly, attempting to wake Sherlock up. Sherlock did not respond, instead he simply tucked John's jacket impossibly tighter around his body and moved away from the source of the noise. "Mr. Holmes," Dr. Janssen tried again, placing his hand gently on Sherlock's shoulder, intending to shake him gently, but he didn't get that far, instead he elicited a very strong response. Instantly Sherlock's hand had a death grip on the doctor's arm, pushing him away, his eyes were wide open and his breathing heavy as if he had just been chasing after a criminal. But he hadn't been, up until a moment before he had been sound asleep, which could only mean one thing. Panic attack. Those were two words John never expected, or wanted, to use in relation to Sherlock Holmes. But why would he be having a panic attack, Sherlock Holmes did not get scared, let alone panic.

Slowly Sherlock pushed himself up from where he was lying, making sure Dr. Janssen remained an arm's length away from him. His breathing was still heavy and his complexion ashen. Gone was the relaxed expression he bore when asleep, to be replaced by one which screamed anxiety to those who knew him. "What do you want?" he hissed, eyes darting about as he tried to make deductions. Deductions always calmed him down, but his panic was marring his thought process and damn it, why couldn't he just think?

"I need to do the bone marrow biopsy Mr. Holmes," he heard someone say in the background but he didn't care, why couldn't people just leave him alone? He felt lightheaded. Subconsciously he drew the jacket, which had slipped off his shoulders, back up. It smelt like John, he liked John; John was nice to him. But John was there watching him panic, John couldn't know what was wrong because then he would leave. Reluctantly Sherlock opened his eyes, having not realised he had closed them, and looked up to meet the concerned eyes of his best friend. He took a deep breath, forcing his breathing into a more regular pattern and almost instantly the dizzy feeling abated.

"I'll just give you a minute Mr. Holmes, and I do mean a minute this time." The doctor left and Sherlock let out a sigh of relief; he didn't particularly dislike the man, but ever since he was a child he'd had an inherent distrust of doctors. John was the exception to that rule. "Are you alright mate?" Lestrade asked worriedly, taking a step forward before thinking better of it considering the display he had just seen.

"I'm fine," he replied leaving no room for discussion. "He just caught me by surprise."

"Mhmm," Lestrade replied incredulously, it was obvious he did not believe the young man, but he didn't say anything, and that was fine with Sherlock.

"Sherlock, tell me what's wrong," John ordered.

"I told you, he caught me by surprise," Sherlock replied whilst trying to suppress a yawn. John glared.

"That is not what I mean and you know it," he said calmly, only a hint of the frustration he was feeling playing at the edges of his tone. Sherlock sighed; John just was not going to drop this.

"I told you this earlier too, it's nothing, really."

"I don't think so, don't you dare give me that crap. Receiving a bone marrow biopsy does not constitute 'nothing' so tell me, what is wrong?"

Despite trying not to, Sherlock flinched away from John's anger. He hadn't quite reached the point of shouting because Lestrade elbowed him in the side when his voice got too loud. He hadn't realised how loudly he had been speaking and he felt sparks of guilt, once again, in the pit of his stomach. There was nobody on earth that could make him feel guilty like Sherlock Holmes could. Honestly he hadn't meant to get angry at the man, but he was sleep deprived and worried and he wished that his best friend would trust him enough to open up to him and tell him what was wrong. What did he think would happen, that he'd leave? Knowing the idiot, that was probably exactly what he thought.

Sherlock looked at John hesitantly; he supposed John would find out at some point, despite what he said the doctor wasn't a complete idiot. "Fine," he replied in frustration. "It's leukaemia John, I have leukaemia." It was at that moment Dr. Janssen and a nurse entered the room and ignored the two speechless men, who were desperately trying to process the news they had just received, and instead moved to Sherlock's side.

"Are you ready, Mr. Holmes?" Dr. Janssen asked, and Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. He could feel anxiety washing over him like a tidal wave; he felt like he might be sick. "We'll have him back in a short while," he heard Dr. Janssen say. "Are you alright, Dr .Watson?" he inquired, in his opinion the man looked a little paler than usual. John shook his head. "Er, yeah, um, I'm fine."

"Alright. Go home and get some rest, we won't have the results until about noon tomorrow so you might as well go. You look exhausted. That goes for you too, Mr. Lestrade."

Sherlock felt the small shudders through the bed as the breaks were taken off and he took a deep calming breath. Someone squeezed his hand with theirs; the hand was slightly rough and calloused. John, it was John, and for once he didn't move away from the touch. As quickly as the contact was made, however, it was gone, and Sherlock felt inexplicably alone as he was wheeled out the door.


	8. Realisation

Sherlock felt numb, the world which he had built up around him had quickly tumbled down. The word leukaemia rattled around his head, not letting him forget his fate, not even for a moment. Before he had not really accepted what was happening to him, but now he had told John and Lestrade, and for some reason it made the whole situation feel infinitely more real. It made a feeling of terror bubble in the pit of his stomach, threatening to spill over at any moment. Or was he feeling nauseous, it was hard to tell.

But now he was sick, really sick, so he would no longer be able to work on cases. John would leave knowing that the detective could no longer provide the thrill and excitement that he craved. Lestrade would leave realising that Sherlock could no longer solve crimes when he was so weak. Molly would leave when she saw his brilliant mind reduced to a babbling mess when the drugs started along with the hideous and disastrous side effects. Mrs Hudson would leave; goodness knows quite why she was so kind to him anyway, when she saw what he was capable of being reduced to. Mycroft would not leave, he had promised Mummy as much, but he would not want to be there and he would make that fact blindingly obvious. Without the distraction of cases and the pain that would wash over his senses Sherlock was sure that his drug cravings would start.

Even if he did recover from the cancer there would be nothing left for him, nobody would want him after seeing how pathetic he had become and there would be nobody there to stop him giving into his less favourable habits. Even if he managed to survive the cancer, he doubted he would be able to survive his own mind so really, was there any point in fighting at all? Of course there was the slight glimmer of hope that perhaps he was wrong, for once he desperately wanted to be wrong, but he was Sherlock Holmes and therefore he was hardly ever wrong.

~0~

Silently John followed Lestrade down to the hospital cafeteria, but he didn't really notice where he was going until a steaming cup of coffee was thrust into his hands. Numbly he took a sip and the hot liquid seared his mouth, the stinging pain casting him abruptly into the terrifying reality he now found himself in. Gently he blew onto the hot liquid under the concerned eye of Lestrade.

The DI looked about as tired as he felt as well as equally as worried. "You should get some sleep," they both said simultaneously, causing them to smile grimly at each other. In all honesty neither of them could stand the idea of him going back to an empty room but they both knew they wouldn't be any good if they didn't get any rest. "What do we do?" John asked helplessly rubbing his eyes then looking up to gaze pleadingly at the older man. "I don't know what to do."

"Me neither," Lestrade said woefully. "You really look like you need some rest though mate, you look like utter crap."

"I could say the same thing about you, but I don't think I could sleep now. I wouldn't want to leave him to his own devices either. You saw what happened last time he was alone." At this, the DI looked down guiltily.

"I didn't get the chance to apologise to you about that, John, I really am sorry…" He was going to carry on, but John waved him off, indicating that there was nothing to be sorry about.

"It was a mistake. Anyway, if he hadn't done that, goodness knows how long it would have been before we found out what was wrong."

The two friends sat in silence for a while, contemplating what their near future held for the man they had the privilege to call their friend. They also thought about what it would hold for them. Even though they were not the ones fighting the disease, this would affect them profoundly because, whether or not he did it on purpose, Sherlock was a horrendous patient and the doctors probably wouldn't know what to do with him.

~0~

There were voices resonating above him and people moving around him in a blur of colour. Then there were cold hands on his skin, moving him onto another flat surface, but he didn't care. Normally he couldn't abide by someone touching him; the physical contact often hurt or sent his mind into some kind of frenzy. But this time he felt nothing, there was nothing, he was completely numb. Surely he should be feeling something? He had just been diagnosed with a potentially fatal illness, informed his two best friends and come to the conclusion that when he returned to his room they would not be there. Everything was imploding around him and there was nothing. Perhaps the pain would come later. He hoped it did, pain was better than the hollow nothingness which seemed to be swelling within him. There was a prick in his arm and he looked up wearily into the face of Dr. Janssen. "Just a mild sedative, Mr. Holmes, we'll be underway very soon."

He understood why they had sedated him, but he really wished they hadn't; it made him feel weak and helpless, more so than he already did. "We're just going to roll you onto your side." Despite the warning, he was not prepared for the hands on his body, and this time he did care, as they gently rolled him over and moved his knees up towards his chest. He clumsily moved his arms to try to remove the hands from his body, but the sedative had taken effect. His movements were heavy and laborious and were easily stymied by the firm but gentle hands of a male nurse.

Keeping the detective's hands still with one hand, the nurse opened Sherlock's gown with the other to allow the doctor access to his hip bones. Each vertebra protruded sickeningly from under the pale skin on his back. "Alright Mr. Holmes, I'm just going to inject the local anaesthetic now, you might feel a slight sting as it goes in." Sherlock did feel the needle entering his flesh and the burn as the anaesthetic was emptied into it, but he didn't react; his whole body just seemed to feel lethargic.

"Right, Mr. Holmes, this shouldn't take too long. We're going to do an aspiration and a biopsy just to make sure we don't miss anything. This will be a bit sore but it won't last long and we'll get you back up to your room." Dr. Janssen was making the mistake of thinking that Sherlock was retaining any of the information that he was being fed, the sedative was not doing his brain any favours. "Right, the first needle will cause a short sharp pain as it goes into the bone, other than that it should be okay."

All Sherlock felt was a slight pressure when the needle first entered his skin, but quickly Dr. Janssen reached the bone and began twisting and twisting the needle in a drilling motion until it finally pushed through. The doctor had definitely been under-exaggerating in his warning. A sharp pain shot out along his pelvic bone like a bolt of electricity, causing Sherlock's whole body to go rigid momentarily, despite the sedative flowing through his veins. He tried to pull away from the source of the pain, but he was held firmly in place by the nurse.

Thankfully it soon subsided, allowing him to relax. It just felt… weird. His hips felt kind of heavy, which was strange, so he moved his head slightly to look. How he hadn't realised that the nurse was holding his hips down, he had no idea. All he knew was that he didn't like it. Groggily he tried to push the nurse away, but he was easily able to ignore the detective's clumsy attempts, attempts which were hindered by the effects of the sedative, but he was persistent.

"Dr. Janssen, he's getting stressed." The doctor looked up from where he was crouched behind Sherlock's curled up form to see disorientated movements. "Mr. Holmes, you're doing very well, I just need you to keep still for a little longer for me. I know that this procedure is very uncomfortable." Instead of calming as the doctor had hoped, in response Sherlock tried to stretch out his legs, a movement which was quickly stopped by the nurse, who then looked at Dr. Janssen questioningly, silently asking what he wanted him to do. "Right, I suppose you'll have to try and keep him still until I'm done with this needle. He's very weak, so he's not going to hurt you or himself. After that I'll see if I need to put him right under or not."

Dr. Janssen worked faster; he did not like to see any of his patients distressed, especially when they were in a situation where the distress could be avoided altogether. Carefully he removed the needle and as soon as it was out Sherlock visibly relaxed. He was still making a half-hearted attempt at getting the nurse away from him, but he didn't feel nearly as anxious as he had previously. "Stay here with Mr. Holmes, we'll need consent to fully sedate him and he is in no state to give it himself. I just need to give his brother a call." The nurse nodded and removed his hands from Sherlock's body, causing the skinny man to instantly go completely limp.

~0~

Mycroft looked up as the knocking on his wooden door reverberated loudly around his office. "Come in," he called, setting the pen down on his oak desk. He leaned back into the chair and groaned as his back cracked. Anthea poked her head around the door. "Dr. Janssen is on the phone, he wishes to speak with you," she said in a quintessential British accent. He nodded his thanks and picked up his mobile from his desk. Silently she disappeared, closing the door behind her.

"Is everything alright?" Mycroft asked, not allowing any concern mar his calm and collected tone.

"Sort of, nothing in particular is wrong. I am just performing a bone marrow aspiration and biopsy on your brother…"

"I am aware. Has something gone wrong?"

"No, no, nothing like that, the procedure is going just fine in fact. No, he's just exhibiting signs of stress despite being injected with a mild sedative, and I was hoping for permission to completely sedate him. It would make the whole experience a lot more manageable for him." Mycroft sighed, of course Sherlock would not make any of this easy for them. This was turning into quite an eventful night.

"Yes, of course, go ahead. Just watch him; my brother does not always react well to being sedated."

"What do you mean? Are there any allergies we have not been informed of?"

"He's not allergic to them," Mycroft replied in frustration. "Sherlock has somewhat of a tolerance, he will likely wake up before you expect him to."

"Thank you for informing us of this. You will need to sign some forms when you are next in to say you have given consent."

"Yes, I'm going to come in now, so I will be seeing you very soon Dr. Janssen." With that Mycroft stood up, picked up his jacket, and headed to the door.

~0~

A nurse bumped into Mycroft as she hurried past, knocking him into the counter, but instead of doing something about it as he usually would, he simply glared at her retreating form. All he wanted to do was get the forms signed and make sure Sherlock was actually alright. He knew his brother, he knew he feared more things than he let on, but he was not one who was given to panicking. There must have been something that triggered him, and he wanted to know what so he could ensure it would not happen again. Despite what Sherlock thought, he was, in fact, concerned with his wellbeing.

Mycroft looked up to see Dr. Janssen approaching, tired and haggard looking. "You look like you could use some rest," Mycroft commented politely, taking the forms from the doctor's hands and scanning over them.

"Once these forms are signed I'll be able to head home." Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement, picked up a pen, and signed several sheets of paper with his signature which consisted of several, incredibly intricate, loops and strokes.

"I hope you have a good night, can I assume my brother is back in his room?"

"Yeah, he's still sedated at the moment, probably will be for a while. We took your advice and gave him more of the sedative than we usually would in that situation just to be sure." Without saying anything Mycroft turned around and headed to his brother's room.

~0~

Lestrade and John were sitting in the incredibly uncomfortable plastic chairs next to Mycroft's unconscious brother, Lestrade looked half asleep and John looked as if he should be asleep, but was instead typing away furiously on his phone. Neither of them noticed Mycroft entering the room.

Sherlock was laid on his side, mouth slightly open and his eyes tightly shut, curls sprawled across the white pillow with a complexion that looked almost ghostlike, a look which was not aided by the way his cheekbones seemed to jut out beneath his skin. The detective was surrounded by pillows, which were there to both prop him up in the correct position and to make sure he did not hurt himself. His bare arms were curled up in front of his body, so they were almost entirely concealed from view but the skin that was exposed was mottled in purple and green bruises. Mycroft winced from just seeing them.

The IV which was attached to Sherlock's arm was pulled tight and must have been pulling painfully at his skin, if he was awake enough to feel it. Tenderly Mycroft shifted his little brother's arm so that the plastic tube had some slack in it. He could feel both Lestrade and John watching him, but he ignored them; instead he stroked his brother's arm slowly, tracing the faint scars with his index finger. That had been a very dark part of his brother's past, one that only Mycroft knew about. He had only truly been rescued from it when Lestrade and then John came along, a fact he was infinitely grateful for. Mycroft knew that neither of the men knew about the scars and, despite what Sherlock thought, he did not take a twisted kind of pleasure in breaching his brother's privacy. Well, he did a little, but not with something as serious as this.

"Are you okay, Mycroft?" Lestrade asked cautiously, unnerved by elder Holmes' uncharacteristic behaviour. "Do you want us to give you a moment with him?" Both Lestrade and John leaned forwards in their chairs preparing to stand, but Mycroft shook his head.

"No, no, that will not be necessary." He forced himself to retract his hand from his brother's arm. "I was called in to fill in some forms and I thought I may as well check on my brother's progress while I was here?"

"And will you be staying here or scurrying back to your office?" John asked sarcastically. He knew Mycroft was worried and would stay if he could, but a part of him was angry at the fact he could not drop everything when his little brother so obviously needed the support. Mycroft pretended not to notice the sarcasm and looked at his pocket watch thoughtfully.

"I am able to stay for a short time," he concluded, dropping into the vacant plastic chair. Why they were so uncomfortable, he would never understand.

~0~

The stench of antiseptic burned his nostrils, and he was sure he could taste it, creating a bitter tang in his mouth. He could hear people around him and if he focussed really hard he could make out what they were saying, but he wasn't interested. But it was curious, he could hear John's voice intermingled with all of the others, which meant that John was there and had not left yet as he had supposed. But then again he could always be wrong; they might have put him on some powerful drugs which caused him to hallucinate. This did not seem a likely theory; he knew what powerful drugs felt like and this felt nothing like that. It did feel slightly surreal though.

Reluctantly he pried his eyes open and blinked, despite how dim the light was; needing to see for himself whether or not people had left him yet. From where he was lying he could see John, Lestrade, Molly and Mrs. Hudson, but he was sure there was someone else in the room. None of them had noticed that he was awake; they all had their attention focussed on a middle aged and very frustrated looking nurse. "Look," she said, obviously trying very hard to keep her voice calm. "It is against hospital policy to let anyone visit outside of visiting hours. How you managed coming in whenever you want, I'll never know but this is getting ridiculous, there are five of you here and you are going to overwhelm him. It's not even visiting hours, so it would be appreciated if at least three of you left; it won't do any good letting you all stay in here."

"It'd be a bad idea to make us leave dear," came the kindly voice of Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock was surprised; normally she would not stand up against people. It wasn't that she wasn't strong enough to, just that she liked to avoid conflict when she could. In retrospect, Sherlock was probably not the best tenant for her to have. "Sherlock is uncooperative at the best of times; I doubt you'd get very far with him if at least John wasn't here." The nurse glared at her and Sherlock felt a swell of protectiveness surge up from within him.

"Leave," he ordered the nurse, his voice sounding scratchy and raspy to his own ears. He descended into a coughing fit, which thankfully did not last for too long. When he looked up again it was to see all eyes on him, which was slightly unnerving. At least the nurse had gone though, he did not like the way she had been looking at Mrs. Hudson. "How're you feeling Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock wished he would not ask, there was pity in his voice and he did not need his pity. In fact he was going to tell John as much but then his eyes glanced at the fifth visitor in the room, Sally Donovan, and his eyes narrowed.

"What the hell is she doing here?" he demanded angrily.

"I came to see how you are Sherlock," she said, stepping towards his bed but stopping as soon as she saw the look he was giving her.

"Come to laugh at me, have you?" he asked angrily.

"What, no-"

"Just leave," he growled, desperately trying to stop himself from coughing. His throat was dry and tickly, but the last thing he wanted was for her to see him any weaker than she already had. The yard would have a field day when she told them about this. She had probably already taken photos on her phone. Why had John and Lestrade even let her in?

"Sherlock…" Sherlock didn't bother to reply to her. He simply rolled himself onto his other side, away from her, and buried his face into the pillows. The world around him became dark and all the sounds were muffled and muted. It was nice; it was almost like it wasn't happening at all. Lestrade sounded far away when he gently told Sally to follow him and he was vaguely aware of people trying to get his attention, but he ignored them. They'd all leave eventually; it might as well be sooner rather than later.


	9. It's Quite a Lot to Take In

Normally Lestrade found that Sally Donovan a pretty easy woman to read, she wore her heart on her sleeve. However, after practically pushing her out of the room he found he could not read her easily at all, that was mainly because she didn't even know how she was feeling herself. Her immediate reaction to Sherlock shirking her concern so readily was anger, an emotion which was almost a default when she saw the arrogant man. But she saw how he looked, she knew a sick man when she saw one, and Sherlock was sick. The damn brilliant freak was sick, but she didn't know how sick.

"What the hell is going on?" she demanded as soon as the door was closed behind them. She let the anger take over; it was a lot easier to deal with than concern, especially when it was to do with Sherlock.

"Calm down, Donovan," Lestrade said gently, but it only served to make her angrier.

"I was trying to be civil towards him and then he goes ahead and throws a fit at me. That's the last time I'm trying that…" she stopped mid rant when she saw the expression on her friend's face. "What's wrong Greg?" she asked, her voice coming out softer this time.

"He's sick, very sick; he'll be in hospital for a while, if he ever gets out at all." Donovan looked shocked, and that was putting it mildly, absolutely horrified would be a more apt description. Lestrade let out a breath slowly and closed his eyes briefly before opening them and staring intensely at the young woman. "He'll kill me for telling you this but here goes, I suppose you should get to know. He's got leukaemia, and by the sounds of it he's let it go quite far."

~0~

John didn't know what to do, he didn't know how to help his friend or if he should even try. Sherlock did not always appreciate being helped—usually he abhorred it. The idiot seemed to have it in his head that needing help was a sign of weakness, and because showing weakness was not an option for him, he never asked. John doubted that he was going to start now even though he was desperately going to need it.

"Dear, are you going to eat your breakfast? You really should, you know," said the kindly voice of Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock ignored her and instead opted to remain curled up on his side. He wished they would just leave already, he didn't expect them to hang around to effectively mock him. Anyway, he most certainly did not want the breakfast that the nurse had left him on the table. The eggs looked rubbery and the sausage looked as if it had never even seen a piece of meat. And quite frankly the rich smell of the breakfast made his stomach churn. What was worse was it was no longer hot but lukewarm, he could feel the distinct burn of bile in the back of his throat as he imagined trying to swallow the coagulated rubbery egg. There was no way anyone was going to persuade him to eat that.

"Sherlock, you really should try a bit. I know it's not exactly appetising but you should at least give it a go." John almost mentioned that Sherlock really could not afford to lose any more weight, but he knew that Sherlock was actually quite touchy when it came to his weight; whenever it got mentioned Sherlock would visibly tense, and it was a sure way of making sure the man did not eat. Like he had done with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock ignored him, merely pulling the blanket further up so it covered his ears. John sighed loudly. He was going to leave and it was going to be soon, Sherlock knew it.

"I know the food here isn't very nice. How about I go home and make you some of that soup you like dear, the broccoli and cheese one? Then you won't have to choke their lunch down when it comes." At the mention of the soup the detective uncurled slightly from the cocoon he had wrapped himself up in to look at the older woman. He nodded at her and she smiled in return before getting up. "Behave for John won't you?" she said gently as she gave him a tender hug goodbye, a hug which he returned half-heartedly.

John did not know that it was possible to feel this awkward around his best friend. Even when they weren't working on a case and Sherlock was bored enough to start experimenting on John's possessions, which would ultimately result in a shouting match, it didn't feel awkward. Either they would argue until they got it all out of their systems and then carry on as normal or John would spend the night elsewhere then when he returned they would both pretend that nothing had happened. It worked for them. The closest they got to awkward was when Sherlock was injured and decided not to tell anyone. If John noticed, then he would rant at the detective whilst patching him up, Sherlock would remain stoically silent. Other than that, they never felt anything close to awkward in each other's company. But now they were; the room was thick with the tension between them.

It was almost a relief when the doctor walked in, at the very least it was a distraction from the very unfamiliar tension which had been plaguing them. It was not Dr. Janssen which entered the room, but rather a young, thin woman with her hair pulled back into a very neat ponytail. A large smile was plastered over her face and she seemed very enthusiastic. John instantly knew that she and Sherlock most certainly were not going to get along.

"Hello Mr. Holmes, my name is Dr. Harrison, I'm your oncologist." She held out her hand politely but Sherlock simply looked at it with an almost quizzical expression, as if even the prospect of shaking someone's hand was an alien concept. To her credit, her smile did not so much as falter as she stood there for a few moments, arm outstretched. When she realised Sherlock was not going to be a cooperative patient, she retracted her hand and scraped a chair along the floor and sat next to the bed, opening the file, and scanning over the numbers she had already inspected closely.

"Now, the technicians down in the lab have been very good and we have managed to get you bone marrow aspiration results through pretty quickly. Unfortunately we won't get the biopsy results through until tomorrow at the very earliest. Can I ask how you're feeling this morning Mr. Holmes?"

"You can ask." He sounded tired. His response caused Dr. Harrison to hesitate slightly before smiling broadly, although it did seem more forced this time."

"How are you feeling?"

"How do you think?" Sherlock responded, reaching up to brush a curl away from his face. His hand was shaking, John hadn't noticed that before.

"Ah, that good? Are you in any pain? Nauseous? If you're a little more helpful I'll be able to prescribe something to help alleviate some of the symptoms."

"I don't want any drugs."

"Sherlock," John said with a warning tone. Sherlock slumped against the sheets in resignation.

"A bit of both I suppose," he replied, his eyelids drooped shut without him really wanting them to.

"Mr. Holmes, I know you are tired but I really need you to stay awake while I'm here. I need to discuss your treatment plan with you. We're going to start tomorrow at the rate your symptoms are progressing, so you really need to know what is going on today. Okay?" Sherlock nodded reluctantly, much to his flatmate's surprise; Sherlock never cooperated with doctors.

"Where is Dr. Janssen?" he demanded.

"Dr. Janssen is home at the moment, he is off until late afternoon."

"I'd rather be treated by him." John looked up sharply, although he was not impressed with how rude his friend was being to the young woman, this was progress. Well, it was progress in that Sherlock actually liked his doctor, as much as Sherlock could like a doctor at any rate, and was in some way expressing a preference regarding his healthcare. This treatment was going to be a nightmare, but perhaps it would not be as hellish as John anticipated it being.

Thankfully the young doctor did not seem offended, and if she was she hid it well. They probably got training on that now though, he didn't get that training when he was studying to become a doctor, he'd just had to hold back his temper by his own force of will. "I'm afraid Dr. Janssen is not an oncologist, so will not be able to carry out all of your treatments. However, he is your primary physician at this hospital, so he will be monitoring your progress closely." Sherlock just looked at her, unwilling to contribute anything more to the conversation.

"Right, I'm just going to talk you through the treatment plan a team and I have come up with for you, if you have any questions at any point just interrupt me. Do you want your friend to remain in here while we do this?" Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

"He can stay if he wants to." Dr. Harrison looked to the older doctor sitting in the corner of the room; John nodded to indicate that he would be staying.

"Very well. Your treatment plan is pretty standardised and will be adjusted according to how well you respond to the treatments. We're going to be using a combination of chemotherapy and radiotherapy. The chemotherapy is divided into three stages: the induction phase, the consolidation phase, and the maintenance phase. The induction phase is designed to wipe out as many of the leukaemia cells as quickly as possible." John could see Sherlock was starting to fall asleep again, but Dr. Harrison didn't notice. John decided not to do anything about it, Sherlock needed his sleep after all and he could always give him the condensed version later on.

"So during the induction phase you'll be given a combination of drugs: prednisone, vincristine and daunorubicin. This stage will hit you the hardest, I'm afraid. Mr. Holmes, are you still with me?" Finally she noticed the way Sherlock's head kept lulling. At the sound of his name he looked up sharply, his eyes misty and far away. "I know medical jargon is very dry and tedious but you need to know what is going into your body. I'll go through as little as possible and leave leaflets to look through when you're feeling a little more awake."

"Just leave now," Sherlock said turning away from her. "John's a doctor; he can tell me what's going on." He must either be feeling really ill or really not like this doctor. Sherlock was a blunt man, but normally he liked to play mind games with doctors, not tell them exactly what he was thinking. John reckoned that it was probably a bit of both.

"John may be a doctor but he is not an oncologist as far as I am aware, he can't tell you this information." She sounded a bit annoyed and the smile she'd previously had plastered to her face had disappeared. She obviously wanted to leave the room as much as Sherlock wanted her to leave. John looked at the feeble figure of his friend and sighed.

"Just carry on," he instructed Dr. Harrison. "He is listening."

"Right, er, yes," she stammered, obviously not having had much experience with difficult patients. "The next stage is designed to get rid of any other remaining cancer cells and the treatment will be milder but more long winded, we'll have to see how well you respond to the first round of treatments before we decide what to put you on for this set of treatment. Then the final stage is designed to ensure the leukaemia stays away, it'll last for a few years but many aspects of your life will return to normal, theoretically that is. There are no guarantees."

John couldn't pinpoint why, but he definitely did not like Dr. Harrison. There was just something about her, and judging from the way Sherlock was behaving, she obviously made him uneasy too. Perhaps he should speak to Mycroft about getting him a new oncologist, but decided he'd give her a chance, although he'd be watching her very closely.

"When we start the first lot of chemo we'll also be starting a treatment called CNS prophylaxis. Because of the number of cancer cells we found in your spinal fluid, we are going to use two methods of treatment; it'll hit you hard, but it'll give you a better chance of survival." She could see that the detective was beginning to drift off which meant that she needed to hurry to make sure he heard everything. She didn't mind, the man in the bed seemed to be entirely unpleasant, even compared to some of the worse patients she'd had to deal with. He wasn't violent but that did not make him any easier to deal with, at least of a patient attacked her she was allowed to use reasonable measures of self-defence.

"Of course the planned course will be altered depending on how you react to the treatments, but that is what we are thinking at the moment. I'll leave you these leaflets which discuss the procedures and the side effects. I can see you're tired Mr. Holmes, so I don't want to keep you awake too long. When you're feeling a bit more awake you can look through them. Do you have any more questions about what I've said?" Sherlock shook his head, a deep scowl painted across his face, the sight seemed so familiar it was sort of reassuring to John, he couldn't help the small smile and relished in how good it felt. All he'd done the last couple of days was worry. He was still worrying, but he liked the fact that for once someone else was responsible for Sherlock's wellbeing, all John and the others had to do was make sure Sherlock's mental state did not suffer too much. Easier said than done.

"When will the treatment begin?" John asked, looking up into the youthful face of Dr. Harrison.

"Unfortunately because of the stage the disease has reached we will have to begin tomorrow. I'll be around in the morning to take him down to the oncology ward and get him set up and we'll start the treatment about midday." John decided that he most certainly did not like this doctor. The sign of a good physician was that they never spoke as if their patient was not there if they were, even if the patient was unconscious, just in case they could hear them. But Dr. Harrison seemed perfectly happy to do it when she was more than aware that Sherlock was awake and lucid.

"I know that this must be a lot to take in Mr. Holmes, and I am sorry. As well as the treatments I see Dr. Janssen has scheduled you for regular appointments with the psychiatrist."

"I don't want to talk to them."

"Give it a go Mr. Holmes, most patients find it more helpful than they expect. The doctor might enter you into group therapy sessions…" At this Sherlock scoffed loudly.

"I don't think so." The doctor stared at Sherlock in annoyance.

"I am also going to schedule you to see a nutritionist."

"No."

"Mr. Holmes, it would be foolish for you to refuse every treatment you are offered."

"I'm not; I will have the chemotherapy and the CNS prophylaxis. I just don't want to see a psychiatrist or a nutritionist. I resent the implication that I am too mentally unstable to deal with this." The arguing felt so familiar that John thought if they weren't fighting over Sherlock's treatment then he'd be able to forget how sick his friend was. He looked ill and exhausted but yet still managed to come off sounding authoritative just as he did before.

"I'm not…" started the doctor indignantly before John shook his head firmly.

"No, I think it would be better if you left now. We can finish this another time." Dr. Harrison sized both the men up and realised she could not win against the both of them.

"Make sure you read the booklets," she ordered angrily before stalking out the room. As the door swung shut behind her, John and Sherlock looked at each other and began to smirk. It was a relief to see Sherlock smiling again, even if it didn't last very long.

"She's an idiot," Sherlock commented, trying to suppress a yawn.

"I think you might be right." John looked more closely at his friend and was once again reminded how tired Sherlock was. "Get some sleep mate."

"-m not tired," he said feebly, his eyes drifting shut.

"Uh huh," John replied sceptically, but Sherlock didn't hear him.

~0~

There was a light tap on the door and John looked up from where he was sitting, reading some trashy magazine that the hospital supplied. He smiled to see the figure of Mrs. Hudson holding a large thermos flask. "How's he doing?" she whispered glancing at Sherlock's sleeping form.

"He's alright considering," John said sadly, putting down the magazine. "The meeting with the oncologist could have gone better."

"Oh dear, what happened?"

"More to the point, what didn't happen? They didn't exactly hit it off and you know what Sherlock is like if he doesn't like someone." Mrs. Hudson chuckled sadly and took a seat next to Sherlock's bed. "Listen, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft texted me, he wants me to go and meet him. Would you be able to keep an eye on Sherlock so I can go and see what this is about?"

"Sure dear, take as much time as you need." John smiled and gave her a quick hug.

"Thanks Mrs. Hudson, he'll appreciate that soup too even if he doesn't admit it.

Mrs. Hudson watched John walk out and then turned her attention to her young tenant. His curls looked matted slightly with sweat and clung to the sides of his face. Tentatively she felt his forehead with the back of her hand, he was a little warm but the doctors probably had it under control. Without really thinking about it she began to run he fingers gently through his hair, it was soft if slightly greasy, and she restored it to its usual, messy self.

Sherlock groaned quietly and shifted in his sleep so Mrs. Hudson retracted her hand, afraid of waking him. Just looking at his frail form made her heart ache and her eyes burn. He always seemed so strong and untouchable, seeing him reduced to this was heart breaking. No, it was more than heart breaking but mere words could not possibly describe how it made her feel. She was glad that John had broken the news to her away from Sherlock; she hadn't been able to stem the flow of tears that fell, but seeing her reaction would not have done Sherlock any good. He didn't always know how to express it, but she knew that he cared for her deeply and that the feeling was reciprocated.

~0~

John didn't know how Mycroft did it, as soon as he stepped out of the hospital the black car glided seamlessly to a halt just where he was standing. He briefly considered that he might have a team dedicated to watching the people Mycroft was interested in and ensuring everything was timed to perfection. John did not dwell on this thought because for most people the very notion seemed ridiculous, but it seemed like a very Mycroft thing to do.

Once again he found himself silently following a smartly dressed man through the spotlessly clean hallways of the Diogenes Club and into the large room. Two glasses of brandy sat on the central table; next to it Mycroft lounged in a chair intensely studying a file. The man who guided John to the room stepped out again without making a single noise and gently closed the two large doors behind him.

At the sound of the soft thump Mycroft looked up and sat the file down. "Ah John, nice to see you again," Mycroft said pleasantly, standing up and gesturing to the chair opposite him. John complied, slumping into the soft material. "How is my brother doing?" he asked, picking up one of the glasses of brandy and John followed suit.

"I think that you probably know better than me."

"Heart rate and respiratory rate normal, temperature 38.2 degrees, extreme irritability." At the mention of Sherlock's temperature John looked up in alarm.

"They're keeping an eye on it," Mycroft responded reassuringly, instantly knowing what had alarmed the doctor.

"What did you want to see me about?" John asked after taking a few deep breaths to calm himself.

"I wanted to know your opinion of the hospital Sherlock's at."

"Why? What are you thinking?" John was curious.

"I don't like Sherlock being treated in an NHS facility; I want to move him to a private hospital, one that has been treating my family for a while now." John shook his head.

"No, moving him would just cause more stress to his system, it wouldn't be a good idea."

"But the doctors there know him and will be able to give him much better standard of treatment."

"Mycroft, listen. The hospital is not a bad one, and he has taken surprisingly well to Dr. Janssen. If you want him to see private doctors I am sure you could pull some strings and get them to go to him instead of the other way around. All I know is that moving him will not do any good and it will expose his already weakened immune system to even more, potentially lethal pathogens."

Mycroft swirled his glass contemplatively and John took a sip from his whilst watching the cogs in the elder Holmes' brain turn. John relished in the burn as the liquid poured down his throat. "I feel I will trust your judgement in this matter Dr. Watson. But if I get the impression that Sherlock would be better off in a private hospital I will not hesitate to move him." John nodded in understanding and rose from his seat, downing the rest of the brandy. It tasted good, he really did not want to think about how much it cost, probably more than he earned in a year. He turned to leave but then a thought popped into his head so he turned back. "There was one thing," John started and Mycroft looked back up at him curiously. "His oncologist, Dr. Harrison, there just seems to be something slightly off about her. I don't know what it is, but there is something. Sherlock certainly doesn't like her."

"That is hardly an uncommon thing," Mycroft commented critically. "If I looked for an oncologist Sherlock liked I think I would be searching for a very long time."

"I suppose, there is something not right about her. Spending so much time with Sherlock has probably just made me paranoid. Thought if you get a chance, you should look into it. It's important for patients to trust their doctors in the very least. I don't think Sherlock will ever trust her." Mycroft nodded, not quite believing what John had to say but respecting him too much to simply dismiss it.

"I'll have a look and see if I can find anything on her and I'll let you know." John nodded his head as a way of thanks before leaving.


	10. The Beginning of the End

Sherlock cracked a heavy eyelid open and blinked violently as the bright sunshine seared into his retinas. He knew it was Mrs. Hudson who was sitting by his bedside because the room positively reeked of her sickly sweet perfume. "You might want to consider going easier on that stuff," he rasped, suddenly realising how dry and sore his throat was. Mrs. Hudson lowered the magazine she was reading and smiled at her tenant, who rolled his head to the side to see her. "Why are you here?" he asked quietly, afraid of throwing himself into another coughing fit. That sounded much more accusing than it did in his head. The thing was he was genuinely surprised that people were still sticking around, and for the life of him he couldn't understand why they were all still there.

"Because I've brought you soup dear," Mrs. Hudson replied in a scolding tone, obviously not impressed by Sherlock's apparent rudeness. "That and John had to go and see Mycroft. Also, do you want him to get you anything from the shop when he comes back?" Sherlock shook his head slowly, he was still scrabbling back from the clutches of sleep and he was finding it a little difficult to focus on what Mrs. Hudson was saying. She obviously could tell that he needed a couple of minutes, so she continued with the magazine she was reading.

After a short while Sherlock felt with it enough to speak. "What time is it?" he asked; voice still raspy.

"About one in the afternoon, so lunch time if you want any. The nurses left some sandwiches while you were sleeping, but you can have the soup if you want." Sherlock nodded and slowly pulled himself into a sitting position. He couldn't find the remote for the bed and he didn't want to make a big thing of it. Once he was sitting up he felt a little better, he didn't like lying down when he was talking to people; it made him feel somewhat vulnerable.

"Where did you say John went?" he asked as Mrs. Hudson poured the soup into a mug. He could smell it; it was rich and it made him feel nauseous, but yet again he didn't mention it. He didn't want anyone fussing over him. Instead he took the mug when it was handed to him and shot Mrs. Hudson a fake smile of gratitude.

"When you fell asleep he went to see Mycroft, apparently your brother texted him." Sherlock didn't reply, he merely growled at the mention of his sibling.

There was a lull in the conversation as the detective took his first sip of the concoction Mrs. Hudson had put together. He knew under normal circumstances he would consider it delicious, and that it was an awful lot better than the rubbish the hospital tried to pass as food. However, it still seemed to cling to the sides of his throat and coat his tongue and the inside of his mouth causing his stomach to churn.

He frowned at the soup, unsure how much he could stomach before throwing it up again and Mrs. Hudson obviously noticed because her expression instantly turned to one of concern and she opened her mouth ready to voice it. But then there was a timid knock at the door, causing both the room's occupants to turn their heads, and there stood what appeared to be a huge bouquet of flowers with legs. Sherlock sighed in relief at the distraction but shook his head in exasperation, why Molly thought bringing him a load of flowers was a good idea was beyond him.

"Oh, hello dear. Those look beautiful, let me help you with those." Quickly Mrs. Hudson stood up and hurried across to the pathologist and took the flowers off her, placing them on a table near Sherlock's bed, revealing a very flustered looking Molly Hooper.

"Hello Sherlock, how're you feeling?" she asked. She was feeling very awkward and Sherlock could tell; this was the first time she'd seen Sherlock since Lestrade had informed her of his leukaemia. She had no idea how to act, how do you act around a sick Sherlock?

To Sherlock it was obvious that Molly did not want to be there, the only reason she was visiting was probably out of some distorted sense of duty. "How do you think?" he replied quietly, looking away from the young pathologist, his hands subconsciously grasping tighter onto the sheets. Mrs Hudson frowned at his sudden change in demeanour but decided against saying anything.

"Oh, okay then," she replied nervously, shooting an unsure look towards Mrs. Hudson, who nodded towards one of the chairs. Taking the hint she sat down, her shoulders tensed with her hands clasped tightly together between her legs and her whole body leaning forwards.

"Oh! I have something for you, Sherlock," she said enthusiastically trying to ignore the fact that the detective was very obviously sulking. She rummaged through her bag and eventually retrieved a pale blue envelope and stretched across to hand it to Sherlock. For a few seconds Sherlock stared at it, contemplating not taking it because if Molly didn't want to be there, then she didn't really want to give him the card, but in the end he decided to simply oblige. It would be easier in the long run.

"Thank you," he muttered before tearing the envelope open and pulling the card out, it was not what he expected. He'd been expecting a card with some flowers on it or some stupid teddy bear dressed as a doctor, or something equally insufferable. What he found was quite different. It was simply a picture of a dog sitting in a grassy field. But it wasn't any old dog; it was a brown Irish Setter. It wasn't his dog, he could easily tell the difference, but it was close and sent a torrent of memories pouring through his mind. "I… I hope you like it," she stammered unsurely. How did she know? His mind was racing trying to figure out when he might have told her about Redbeard, but his mind couldn't remember even mentioning him to her, let alone confiding in her what that dog had meant to him. He couldn't even think why he might tell her. But this couldn't be coincidence. Of all the cards she could have picked, of all the different dogs she could have selected. No, this was definitely not a coincidence.

"I thought it might make you feel better when it got really bad," she said nervously. She had no idea how Sherlock would take it, and he still hadn't taken his eyes off the card. Carefully he lifted a shaking hand and stroked his fingers gently across the glossy pictures before raising his gaze slowly until his eyes met with Molly's. His expression was unreadable, but Molly got the impression that getting the card was a good choice.

"Thank you," he said, his voice was raspy but nonetheless full of gratitude. It was the most sincere Molly had ever seen him. He would ask how she knew at some point, he just did not want that conversation in front of his landlady, not even she knew about Redbeard.

Looking back at the card he opened it reluctantly, not wanting to get rid of the picture of the dog. Inside he took in the perfect curls of Molly's handwriting.

Dear Sherlock,

I know that this must be difficult for you, but you are the strongest person I know. If anyone can beat this disease, it's you. But don't forget you don't need to fight it by yourself; you have friends that care about you and want to help you. Make sure you remember that, because I know sometimes you forget. I hope you have a swift recovery. I'll make sure I keep all the interesting bodies ready for you to examine once you're up and about.

Lots of love,

Molly xx

A small smile played at the corners of his lips; he'd never had friends in his life, he didn't know why he should expect to start having them now. Molly seemed pretty adamant that people did like him, and even though he didn't believe her remotely, he decided to let himself be swept up in her delusion, just so he could feel like there were people who would miss him if he did die. It felt good.

~0~

When John eventually made it back to the hospital it was to find Sherlock sitting up in bed; he still looked terribly ill, but there was something about him which seemed happier than when he had been in before. In his hands he clutched a cup of tea that the nurses must have brought for him. His hands were shaking, and every so often spatters of hot tea would escape and scald his hand. The doctor in John wanted Sherlock to put the drink down and have it through a straw when he realised that it must be burning his friend but he managed to suppress the urge. Sherlock actually looked relatively happy, and John knew that making him feel like more of an invalid would distress him more than a bit of hot tea.

He greeted Mrs. Hudson and Molly as he entered the room and smiled at Sherlock as he took the last seat in the room. There was a massive bunch of flowers giving the room a sweet scent and there was a car with a dog on it lying in Sherlock's lap; it was all very curious. John was deliberating what to say to Sherlock, but his friend beat him to the punch. "I think that there is something wrong with Dr. Harrison." It took a John a moment to understand what Sherlock was saying but then nodded in agreement.

"I thought that as well."

"Sorry, who's Dr. Harrison?" asked Molly curiously. John looked at Sherlock, expecting him to answer, but instead of that he was looking into the depths of his tea as if they held the answers to the mysteries of the universe. John shook his head in a mixture of despair and fondness.

"Sherlock's oncologist."

"What's wrong with her dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her curiosity piqued. Yet again Sherlock made no indication that he was intending to answer and remained engrossed in the tea, so John answered for him.

"There's just something about her that puts us on edge, well Sherlock probably knows exactly what it is but I can't put my finger on it. I've hinted to Mycroft to find him a different oncologist."

At this, Sherlock's head snapped up. "Why would you do that?" he asked; frustration permeating his voice and John furrowed his brows in confusion.

"What do you mean? We both know there is something funny with her, I want to make sure you have a good oncologist."

"No, no, I don't doubt her abilities as an oncologist. It's just her in general."

"Dear, I don't think that the rest of us are really following." At this remark, Sherlock actually looked surprised and looked at everyone, each of them shook their heads. He rolled his eyes and took a sip of tea trying to hide a yawn. He was unsuccessful. The shaking was getting worse as he began to tire.

"Her behaviour was off, even you picked up on that John, she was acting sort of mechanically, as if everything had been scripted. Even when she began to get frustrated, it was as if she was being told how annoyed she could get." At this point he stopped to have a sip of tea to try and keep down a cough which would inevitably turn into a coughing fit. This time his strategy was successful. "I can't explain it perfectly, but that's the best way I can describe it. Do you know what I mean, John?" Sherlock's expression was worried, as if his inability to produce conclusive evidence would mean that people would doubt him, so John made sure he was quick to reassure his friend. As it happened Sherlock had hit the nail on the head and John agreed wholeheartedly.

"That's exactly what it was like, I didn't know how to describe it, but that does it perfectly." At this Sherlock visibly relaxed.

"I'm unwell, which unfortunately prevents my brain from working at full capacity." Molly patted Sherlock's arm reassuringly, he sounded incredibly distressed that he couldn't think as fast as normal, but she quickly stopped as he jerked away. He splashed tea on himself in the process, which he didn't seem to notice, so nobody had the heart to point it out.

John smiled as he saw Sherlock's eyes droop in exhaustion but then the detective shook his head vigorously to wake himself up. "She's dishonest too." Nobody bothered to ask, they just looked at him curiously waiting for him to explain.

"Her clothes are rumpled but they don't smell clean which means that they haven't been stuffed in a drawer after being washed, they're the clothes she wore yesterday."

"I don't follow, how does that make her dishonest?" asked Molly, knowing Sherlock wanted someone to take the bait.

"Of course you don't. Any doctor I know would change their clothes after a shift at the hospital; apart from the fact they're on their feet all day they could get any number of bodily fluids on their clothes. This indicates she was not at home last night. Why wouldn't she be home last night? She was staying at someone else's."

"So, she slept with someone. That doesn't make her dishonest; I didn't notice a wedding ring." John commented, he hadn't been looking but he was sure she wasn't wearing one.

"Who wears a wedding ring when they're cheating on their husband?" Sherlock asked sounding exactly like his old self. Sadly though his hands had started shaking to the extent that he had put his half empty tea cup on the table and placed his hands carefully in his lap. "Anyway, doctors tend not to wear rings at work because it can make gloves rip. I don't blame you not for noticing though."

"Not noticing what?" John asked despite knowing h would probably regret asking, when Sherlock started making deductions he always got interested.

"Well she is pale, obviously not been out the country for a while. But there is a faint paler patch of skin on her ring finger indicating she is married."

"How can you tell she's married and didn't just divorce a while ago?" asked Mrs Hudson.

"As I said, she obviously hasn't been out the country for a while, you can tell from how pale she is. The only sun we have had recently that could have been strong enough to produce even the slightest tan was two weeks ago and she was obviously wearing her ring then."

"Fantastic," John said. No matter how many times he heard Sherlock's deductions they never got any less amazing. But the way Sherlock looked when John made that comment astonished him, apparently being ill was lowering his mask slightly, because he was positively glowing at the praise John gave him. John knew Sherlock liked to have his ego boosted, anyone who went within twenty feet of the man knew that, but he had no idea how much Sherlock apparently thought of his opinion.

Nobody spoke for a short, but it was Sherlock who broke the silence. "What were you and my brother talking about that took so long?" Sherlock asked, his ability to stay awake was fading but he fought it.

"Oh, I was only talking to him for a few minutes. I went to Tesco and then and went to Scotland Yard."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked curiously, there was a hint of excitement in his voice. "Is there another case?"

"Um, not quite. I went to see Greg and he's given me a load of cold cases for you to look over if you want to and if you're feeling up to it. Just something to keep you occupied."

"Fantastic, where are they?" Sherlock asked excitedly.

"Um, I left them at the flat; I took the shopping back and left them there. Do you want me to go and get them?" Sherlock glared at John but nodded enthusiastically in reply.

"Alright, just get some sleep while I'm out Sherlock, you look wrecked."

"All I ever do now is sleep," Sherlock growled angrily. John remained un-phased by Sherlock's outburst, he couldn't really blame him, John knew he would be absolutely terrified and frustrated if their positions were reversed.

"I don't think anyone will blame you Sherlock."

~0~

The detective hadn't even meant to follow John's orders; he'd inadvertently drifted off to sleep. Unfortunately, forty five minutes after falling into his fitful slumber he was cast violently into reality as his stomach decided it no longer wanted to retain the small amount of food he'd managed to ingest. He could feel the bile burning his already sore throat and searing the inside of his mouth. He could see the foul concoction of tea, soup and stomach acid sloshing about in his lap but he ignored it in favour of trying to calm the dry heaves which sent pain surging through his entire body.

He felt a hand on his back, rubbing firm circles to try and relax him, and he was sure the owner of the hand was saying something, but for the life of him he couldn't hear what it was. After what seemed an eternity the retching stopped, causing Sherlock to slump back in his bed, exhausted and gasping for breath. He was too tired even to try and work out who it was in the room with him. A cup touched his lips and he raised a shaking hand and took it, water spattered onto his hand and he groaned in frustration at his inability to even hold a cup steadily. "Just rinse your mouth," came the gentle voice of DI Lestrade. "Then spit it out into the cup. I'll get you a fresh glass and find a nurse. I think you're going to want to get a clean sheet."

Sherlock's face burned in embarrassment as he opened his eyes to meet the concerned ones of Lestrade. "I'm fine," he rasped unconvincingly before taking a large mouthful of the water and sloshing it around his mouth.

"Like hell you are," retorted Lestrade, taking the cup from Sherlock once he had spat into it and went off to find a nurse.

~0~

Ten minutes later Sherlock found himself in a bed with clean sheets and in a fresh gown and he was ever so slightly annoyed. Nurses did like to make stupid small talk and he was in no mood to pretend that he wanted to talk to them. They left the room in as stormy a mood as he was in.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded. "I thought you asked John to bring me cold cases, why couldn't you bring them if you were coming here?" Lestrade sighed inwardly, Sherlock was obviously not in a good mood and that never meant anything good for anybody.

"I wasn't planning on coming over, technically I'm meant to be working right now, but Sally had to come and interview a victim in this hospital so I thought I might as well come over and see how you were doing."

"What the hell is Donovan doing here?" Sherlock demanded angrily.

"She's worried about you Sherlock. Anyway, she's not even here to see you, if you don't want to see her then you don't have to."

At that point John, walked in with an armful of folders and looked at Lestrade in surprise. "Sorry John," Lestrade said hastily. "I wasn't expecting to come over here, but Sally had to interview someone, so I thought I might as well tag along. Everything is rather quiet at the moment."

"Won't someone notice you're gone?" John asked, taking a seat in another of the chairs and quickly scanning his eyes over Sherlock. He looked worse than before.

"As far as the logs are concerned I'm going to be assisting in the interview, Sally won't let on so it's okay."

"I wouldn't count on that," Sherlock muttered irritably.

Before either John or Lestrade could say anything there was a knock on the door, a small and very smiley woman stepped in, she didn't look at all like a doctor, but she was holding a clipboard, so John didn't know what else she could be. "Mind if I come in?"

"Yes."

"No." John and Sherlock glared at each other and the woman looked a little hesitant before deciding just to come in anyway.

"Hello Mr. Holmes, I'm Jane. I'm a nutritionist; Dr. Harrison said you would see me."

"I'm fine," Sherlock said looking at his hands which were clasped tightly in his lap adamantly.

"Dr. Harrison doesn't seem to think so," she said, sitting down next to Sherlock's bed. "But if I feel she is wrong, I will let her know. Anyway, I need to apologise for not telling you ahead of time that I was coming. I only received the request this morning and considering that your chemo starts tomorrow I thought it would be wise to get our first meeting out the way."

"There's going to be more?" Sherlock moaned petulantly.

"Yes, if you know what's good for you." John had already taken a liking to the short woman; she was going to give Sherlock a run for his money by the looks of it. Sherlock turned his gaze onto her, John and Lestrade recognised it as his calculating gaze and both of them knew that they were helpless to prevent what was coming next.

"How does it feel to have a son that hates you?" Sherlock asked, trying to get under her skin to make her leave.

"Probably about as crappy as you think it does," she replied without batting an eyelid. "I know exactly who you are Mr. Holmes. I follow your friend's blog and I have heard what people say about you. You are a fantastic detective but in this hospital, you are a patient. You are here to get better, not to deduce my personal life as a part of a puzzle to solve. Now, are you ready to let me do my job and help you?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched in bemusement; this woman was quite interesting. "Fine."

"Good, now, do you want your two friends here?" she asked, her voice turning instantly kinder.

"Actually I should probably go and find Donovan. I'll be back to see you tomorrow mate," Lestrade said picking up his jacket. After Lestrade left, Sherlock didn't answer Jane's question.

"I can leave if you want me to, Sherlock," John said, starting to stand up.

"Stay." It was so quiet that John barely caught it, but he instantly sat down again. That single word spoke volumes about how afraid Sherlock must be.

"Right, well I've been asked to speak to you because there are some concerns on the effects this treatment is going to have on your weight. Chemo often causes people to lose their appetite and therefore people often lose weight while undergoing treatment. In your case it is imperative that we try to minimise this as much as possible. You can't afford to lose anything else."

"I've always been thin," Sherlock defended, wrapping his arms around his frame. John really did feel sorry for Sherlock; he knew how defensive the man was about his weight.

"That may well be, but the point still stands, it would be detrimental for you to lose anything else. So I'm going to put you on a high calorie diet. As I said during chemo you will likely be off your food so this diet will involve a lot of protein bars and that sort of thing. During the initial stage, you may not be able to stomach anything, but we'll just have to work around that and start. Do you have any questions about any of that?"

Sherlock shook his head but curled up on his side, away from Jane. He really didn't want to be there discussing his weight with a complete stranger. She smiled sadly, but it was an understanding smile. "I know this must be incredibly difficult for you Mr. Holmes, but I assure you, we won't be doing anything that will cause you harm. I'm also going to talk to Dr. Janssen when he gets in about sorting physiotherapy for you. Maintaining muscle mass is highly important when it comes to maintaining weight. I think that's all I have to say and unless you have any questions I'll be off." She was met by silence from the bed, unsurprising really.

"Thank you, I don't think there is anything," John replied for Sherlock. She nodded and smiled.

"I'll be back in a few days to see how you're doing and we'll see if you've been able to keep anything down."

Once she was gone John regarded the curled up figure on the bed and a pang of sadness assailed him. It was wrong seeing Sherlock suffering like that. "Do you want a drink or anything, Sherlock?" No reply. So John sat next to the bed and started to read through the cold case files Lestrade had left. He stayed there, doing just that late into the night, reluctant to leave Sherlock in case he needed him. Sherlock barely moved except for the occasional twitch in his sleep. He would be stiff in the morning but John reckoned that muscle stiffness would be the least of his friend's worries.

Sherlock just looked so damn frail and John got the overwhelming urge to comfort his friend, to hug him, but he didn't. The doctor didn't want to wake Sherlock and anyway, their friendship did not work that way. If their roles were reversed then Sherlock definitely wouldn't be hugging John.

John looked up blearily as a nurse walked into the room. "Sir," she whispered. "You really should go home to get some rest. He's going to sleep through the night; you don't need to be here." John knew that the nurse was probably right, but he didn't want to leave his friend in case something happened. In the end he acquiesced and decided that her suggestion was probably a good one. Those chairs really did a number on his back. He could probably get back to the hospital before Sherlock was awake again. Quickly he scribbled a note on a bit of paper and left it on the table next to Sherlock's bed and left.

Once the nurse had left the room, Sherlock, who was not even remotely asleep, opened his eyes. They were stinging so he blinked rapidly trying to abate it. Reaching under his pillow he pulled out the jacket John had given him on the rooftop and curled himself around it. He remained like that for the remainder of the night, afraid and feeling very alone, until sunlight shone into the room. Even when strange doctors and nurses appeared and wheeled his bed to another, remote part of the hospital he didn't move. It felt like they were taking him away to die.


	11. The Cure Can Be Worse than the Disease

The dim morning light shone through the windows and between the small gaps of the blinds. It was an inappropriately nice day considering what was going to transpire. There was a gentle tap at the door and Sherlock curled in tighter on himself, unwilling to interact with whoever was at the door. He heard the feet of a nurse heading towards the bed, so he closed his eyes tightly, hoping she would think he was asleep and would therefore leave him alone.

Sherlock's plan half worked, she did think that he was asleep, but that didn't make her leave him alone, it actually had quite the opposite effect. "Mr. Holmes," she said gently. "Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry but you're going to have to wake up now." There was no reply, Sherlock forced his breathing into a rhythmic pattern, being careful not to breathe too deeply as there was a tickle in his throat that threatened to quickly evolve into a full blown coughing fit.

Tenderly she placed her hand on his arm to try and get his attention, she did succeed but not in quite the same way as she had hoped. Sherlock's natural defence mechanism kicked into action and he instantaneously retracted his hand, giving the nurse a fright in the process, and he shot bolt upright. He could feel his whole chest heaving as the tickle in his throat transformed as he feared, reducing him to a series of hacking coughs that left the nurse frowning in concern. She left the room silently to fetch Sherlock a cup of water, giving him a few moments of privacy to regain his composure. He felt far wearier than he should, and he was still gasping for breath. For a man who usually knew exactly what each of his limits were it was an extremely unnerving experience. And he could have sworn that his bones had not hurt this much yesterday, but he could easily be wrong, he was finding it hard to keep track of time in the hospital. The detective couldn't help feeling abhorrence towards the hospital, the building that felt more like a prison than a place of healing, and although he knew it was illogical, he found himself blaming it for the reduction in his mental acuity.

"Are you alright Mr. Holmes?" the nurse asked, coming back into the hospital room, cup of water in hand. She held it in front of him and he silently accepted it, glaring at her simply because she had been a witness to his weakness. She ignored his expression, used to all sorts of patients. She simply stood there and waited patiently as Sherlock raised the cup with a shaking hand to his lips. He couldn't drink for long, the tremors became too much and he put the cup down, but while it lasted the cool water felt wonderful on his dry throat.

"Mr. Holmes, I am here to take a blood sample and to insert an IV. Is that okay?" Instead of replying Sherlock simply rolled up the sleeve of his dressing gown and held out his arm. Inwardly she winced at the scars that littered it, but her professionalism prevented her from saying anything. He obviously had not done anything in a while, so really it was none of her business; however, seeing such evidence always made her cringe. The fact that he had not so much as uttered a word to her was also a little concerning and something that she should probably mention to Dr. Janssen when she saw him. But for now she had a job to do and she would do it.

"I'm just going to tie this around your upper arm, there may be a bit of discomfort but it shouldn't be too bad." As far as Sherlock was concerned, she needn't have bothered with the warning, as he was more than familiar with tourniquets. "You must be sick of having your blood taken by now, I'm sure you must have had more than your fair share of tests since you got here." As expected, Sherlock did not reply to her overly cheery enquiry. Her voice and foolish optimism was giving him a headache and he wished that she would just leave him to his misery. Gentle fingers started probing his arm looking for a vein and each touch felt slightly sickening. "You know, when I was little I used to think that doctors and nurses were vampires," she said to try and fill the silence. "I thought that the only reason they took blood was so they could eat and not get caught." Her voice grated on Sherlock's ears and her touch was searing. The antiseptic smell of the hospital was thick around him, overwhelming his mind with its sharp stench. The room was bright and the nurse was far too easy to read; sick as a child, happily married with a son and daughter, pet hamster and dog, right handed, uses antidandruff shampoo… the information poured in like a torrent.

Sherlock's breathing increased and his heart began pounding in his chest, all the information was swirling around him, but what really troubled him was the feeling of the nurse's fingers on his arm; they were searing into him. He wished she would just leave him alone, but her hands were persistent. He could feel the dull ache in his bones growing exponentially into a burning pain which made him squirm in discomfort and caused and uncomfortable churning sensation in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly the nurse's hands had left his arm and were grasping his shoulders. Sherlock heard his name being called but he didn't care, all he wanted was to escape the nurse's grasp. His vision was beginning to fade in and out and he could feel the room beginning to spin around him slightly. The nurse was resilient and refused to move, and he tried to push her off but his movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, Her hands were still there and this made the swirling feeling in his stomach beginning to move its way up, burning as it went, until it forcefully pushed its way out of his mouth and all over himself and the nurse. Surprised Sherlock looked down at himself, saw the vomit staining his hospital gown, then finally his vision faded into complete darkness.

~0~

John narrowly avoided running into a patient in a wheelchair as he careened down the corridor, staring at his watch. He was running a little bit later than he'd wanted to be but not too much later, only ten minutes, and he thought that Sherlock would still be fast asleep. However when he reached his friend's room it was empty, bed neatly made with no evidence of the clutter that seemed to follow Sherlock. The first thought that popped into John's mind was that Sherlock had passed away during the night, when he was alone, and even that fleeting thought caused him staggering emotional agony. The doctor forced himself to calm his breathing before he went to find the detective. If Sherlock had died then Mycroft would know, and if Mycroft knew he would have had someone phone John.

Taking deep, calming breaths he headed over to the nurse who looked in charge. "Excuse me," he said, forcing his voice into one of neutrality so he didn't sound panicked. The nurse looked up; she was fairly old and kind, but she also looked like the kind of woman who John certainly would not like to cross.

"Oh, you're friends with that detective chap aren't you?" John nodded in affirmation.

"I was wondering if you could tell me where he is. He isn't in his room, well, his old room now I suppose."

"Oh yes of course, he got moved down to oncology first thing this morning. If you go down to the second floor in the lift then the signs will take you there. Ask one of the nurses down there and they'll be able to tell you what room he is in."

"Ok, thank you," John said before turning around and heading for the lift.

"Anytime sir," the nurse replied, but by this point John wasn't listening, he was busy hurrying towards the lift. He willed the contraption to move faster but it simply didn't want to oblige. Despite knowing it was useless, John found himself pressing the button continuously until the lift arrived and when in the lift he tapped his fingers against his hand impatiently. If Sherlock had been moved already, the likelihood of him being woken up was very high. He absolutely abhorred the idea of Sherlock spending any length of time in the hospital alone, he'd hate it. John just hoped that if he had been woken up he'd gotten to read the note he'd left.

Just as the doors opened John felt his phone buzz, he pulled it out his pocket as he set off following the signs as the nurse had instructed him. This floor was slightly eerie, there wasn't much activity going on around him, there was nobody in the corridor other than him, and the stench of antiseptic was overwhelming. To distract himself from the hallway John looked at his phone and groaned loudly. Mycroft had just texted him saying he'd be visiting Sherlock later in the morning, that was sure to make a bad day worse. Sherlock, at the best of times, would be unhappy to see his brother. John could only imagine how a sick Sherlock in the middle of a chemotherapy session would react to seeing his sibling. It didn't even bear thinking about. John just carried on down the hallway towards his best friend; he'd just have to deal with one problem at a time.

~0~

After getting lost a couple of times due to incredibly bad signposting, John made it down to the oncology ward where he soon managed to locate a nurse. "Excuse me; I was wondering if you could tell me what room my friend, Sherlock Holmes, was in." The nurse looked him up and down warily for a few moments until a look of recognition sprung into her eye.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Dr. John Watson. Why?" he asked, suddenly confused.

"I thought so; I just thought I should check before I disclosed any information. We've been told you have the same right as direct family when it comes to sharing information with you."

"Oh?" John replied, now utterly confused.

"Yeah, sorry, I do tend to ramble a bit. Well basically this morning when one of the nurses went in to take a blood sample he had a panic attack when she touched him. He made himself sick then he passed out. He regained consciousness about fifteen minutes after and he refused to answer anyone's questions or eat anything. Just to warn you if he doesn't say anything to you." John nodded sadly.

"Thank you, he doesn't like hospitals, at least I don't think he does based on experience. It's not really the sort of thing he would tell me. But I'll see if I can get him to eat anything."

"If you could that'd be brilliant. He is on a food chart, and if he doesn't start eating something soon we will need to put him on a feeding tube." John nodded in understanding. "Oh, he's in room 27, just keep on down the hall the way you were going." As soon as the words were out of her mouth he left.

~0~

After once again regaining consciousness, Sherlock was bombarded with questions from both nurses and Dr. Janssen. They told him they were trying to help him, if they knew what set him off then they would be able to avoid it happening again in the future. But Sherlock did not answer. He didn't want to talk to people; he didn't want them to know what set him off. If he were to be honest he hadn't a clue exactly what had caused the panic attack and that terrified him. He hated now knowing because that meant he could be thrown into another one at any time in front of anyone. That was a situation that certainly needed to be avoided. Sherlock felt ashamed at even the thought of having a panic attack in front of John or, even worse, Mycroft.

"Sherlock!" At the sound of John's voice Sherlock straightened out his body slightly from it curled up position, IV port tugging with an uncomfortable sting. He glanced at his friend before turning his attention back to the drawers next to his bed, stubbornly refusing to utter even a single word. Without hesitation John pulled up a chair and looked at his friend with concern. "Are you alright Sherlock?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied without really thinking about it; it was the first thing he'd said since his panic attack. He hadn't intended to say anything, but for some reason he found he couldn't ignore John like he could with everyone else.

"I heard you threw up and passed out, I was worried." John decided to skip over the panic attack, he knew Sherlock would not appreciate hearing it said blatantly and John couldn't see how at that moment bringing it up would be of any benefit. Sherlock merely grunted in response because he wasn't sure how he was expected to respond.

The ex-army doctor wasn't really sure what to do. It was obvious Sherlock was not in a talkative mood but sitting there in silence also seemed wrong. It was at that moment that the toast on the table caught John's eye. "You know you really should eat something mate." This time Sherlock did not respond, John knew how he would feel about such a statement but yet again he was an idiot and brought it up anyway. If John was going to be so tedious and boring then he did not deserve a response as he was just like everyone else.

"Look, I know you feel sick and I know you really don't want to eat anything. But seriously Sherlock, you need to at least try. I was talking to a nurse out there and she says you're on a food chart and they're talking about putting you on a feeding tube."

The mention of a feeding tube got Sherlock's attention; he knew exactly what that entailed and it wasn't exactly pleasant. He also knew that if they thought he wasn't eating enough and he refused a feeding tube they would merely get permission from elsewhere, probably Mycroft, and he did not want to give the power-crazed idiot the satisfaction. Slowly he rolled over to face John, face contorting in pain with the movement, and John pretended not to see.

"I'll refuse to let them put it in," Sherlock tried, hoping that maybe for once he would be wrong.

"Sherlock," John said sadly. "You and I both know that if they think you need it they'll get it in somehow regardless of what you want them to do." Of course Sherlock knew that, he'd just been hoping.

"I think I'll be sick if I have anything," he said, looking at John pleadingly. That look had sometimes got him out of meals on a particularly long cases but it didn't look like it would work this time.

"Just have some of this toast," John said, being sure to keep his voice gentle. "It is dry so it should be fairly easy for you to keep down." Begrudgingly Sherlock raised the bed into a sitting position and took the plate and began to chew slowly. Each bite felt difficult to swallow, as if it was sticking to the insides of his mouth, causing him to choke a few times. He only managed one and a half slices, John made sure he schooled his expression into one of neutrality but inwardly he was more relieved by the effort than he really should be.

~0~

Sherlock watched John through cracked open eyelids while the doctor thought that he was sleeping. He was doing his best to ignore the pain; he'd been given mild painkillers, but he didn't want anything stronger because it would dull his mind. Given the choice, pain was preferable to impeded brain function. To try and ignore the pain Sherlock set his mind on thoughts of John and why he was still sticking around. John craved excitement and all Sherlock did now was sleep and vomit. So why was John still there? It was always possible that he was there to watch Sherlock in his illness so he could go away later and laugh at him. But John was a doctor; surely he wouldn't find illness of any kind funny. But Sherlock could comprehend no other reason for John to still be there. Perhaps if he had no drugs in his system at all he'd be able to figure it out.

Of course he could always ask John why he was still there but he didn't really want to. Sherlock wasn't sure he'd really want to hear the answer. And if John knew Sherlock was onto him, that John had some kind of ulterior motive, then he'd leave. Loathe he was to admit it Sherlock liked John being there, even if he had his own reasons, and didn't want to risk scaring him away early.

"How are we today, Mr. Holmes?" The distinctive voice of Dr. Harrison shattered the previous peaceful silence of the room. As she announced her presence Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he looked at her with an expression which positively screamed disdain. Strangely enough John wore a look that was pretty similar to Sherlock's. "I'm afraid today is the day," she said, trying to make her tone sound kind and caring. It sounded like neither of these things; Sherlock had heard fake concern enough to recognise it when he heard it.

She was being trailed by a shy looking nurse holding a couple of bags of clear fluid who, as soon as she entered the room, began fiddling about with all the equipment situated next to Sherlock's bed. The very sight of that innocent looking liquid made Sherlock's heart thump rapidly and he felt like he might be sick. Shutting his eyes he forced himself to calm down his body's response. There was no way he wanted John to find out how utterly terrified he was, although, it didn't look like John was doing much better than Sherlock. Why was John looking so scared?

As the nurse started pulling at the tube running into Sherlock's arm Dr. Harrison began to speak. "All we're doing here is switching your saline drip for the combination of chemotherapy drugs. The bags will then be attached to a pump which will regulate the rate at which the drugs will enter your blood stream. Then a single tube will go into your arm through the cannula." The fact that neither John nor Sherlock were yet to say a word didn't seem to bother her; once again she seemed pretty keen to leave the room.

At this point in her spiel there was a tapping at the door and all the room's occupants turned to look. Standing there, looking for the entire world like there was absolutely nothing wrong, stood the one and only Mycroft Holmes. Both John and Sherlock groaned audibly and Dr. Harrison and the nurse looked confused.

"Sorry, who are you?" Dr Harrison asked angrily. "We're about to start treatment, if you could come and visit another time that would be helpful." Mycroft seemed to take this as an invitation to enter the room, umbrella in one hand, newspaper in the other.

"I am Sherlock's big brother. If you try to make me leave you will regret it."

"Is that a threat, sir, because if it is I will call security!"

"Oh I wouldn't do that either and it wasn't a threat, think of it more as a promise. Oh, and don't bother finishing what you were saying, I can assure you my brother didn't care in the slightest."

"Can I see some identification, sir? You do not bear any resemblance to my patient and I need to be sure of your relationship before I can allow you to remain in this room." Mycroft groaned loudly but obliged and pulled a card out of his pocket. It was unusual; she had never seen anything like it before. It looked like some form of government issue. Either way it seemed to confirm his last name was Holmes so she was willing to believe what he said.

"As I was saying," Mycroft continued after she nodded he head. "You needn't carry on with what you were saying; my brother has no desire to hear you ramble on."

"I am legally obliged to tell him these things."

"I free you of your legal obligation."

"What?" The elder Holmes opened his mouth to reply but John got in there first to try and keep the peace.

"Just don't ask, but believe me, he has that kind of power." Dr. Harrison looked between the two men, completely bewildered, before giving in and going to help the nurse.

"Brother dear," Mycroft said, addressing Sherlock for the first time since entering to room. "How do you feel?" Unsurprisingly there was no response. "Ah, you're being like that are you? I just thought you would like to know you caused quite a stir in the papers today." He dropped the newspaper he had been holding and Sherlock glanced at it curiously. SHERLOCK HOLMES HOSPITALISED. His heart seemed to freeze; he did not want anyone to know about this. He heard Mycroft and John talking in the background but he was paying no attention. All he could do was stare at the headline, horrified.

~0~

"What the hell did you alert the papers for?" John hissed to Mycroft. His whole body was tense and proclaimed the rage he was feeling.

"This wasn't me, I just happened to notice." Mycroft replied. Neither man looked at each other, they were preoccupied with the blank expression pasted onto Sherlock's face, leaving them both to imagine the turmoil of emotion which must be bubbling under the calm shell.

"Of course it was you, who else would it be?"

"I can assure you, this was not me. What could I possibly have to gain by doing such a thing?"

"I don't know, to beat him in this petty feud the two of you seem to have going?"

"Dr. Watson, I know that you don't have the most complementary opinion of me but I like to think that you don't consider me childish. I assure you this was not me but I will be launching a thorough investigation into who leaked this information."

John stared at Mycroft, trying to ascertain whether or not the man could be trusted, in the end he simply nodded his head. Dr. Harrison, who had been listening in discretely suddenly intervened. "We're ready to go here," she said nervously, John put it down to Mycroft's presence. He was an intimidating character after all to those who did not know him.

"Well I believe that this is my cue to leave," Mycroft commented, spinning the tip of his umbrella against the ground. "Unless you want me here to see this, little brother." In response Sherlock glared at Mycroft. "I thought not. Look after my brother, Dr. Watson, I'll be in touch." And with that, much to the relief of everyone in the room, Mycroft left the room.

~0~

Dr Harrison told John and Sherlock that the treatment would take two hours, and would be continued for three days and then Sherlock's condition would be reassessed to see if they could progress onto the next stage of treatment. But now Sherlock was an hour into his first treatment and, John knew that it was his imagination, Sherlock looked a lot worse than he did before. His skin looked just that bit more pasty and the bruising looked just that bit more severe. Of course as a doctor John knew that the side effects of the chemo wouldn't truly manifest themselves for another couple of days, some of the effect could happen weeks after initial treatment.

John watched Sherlock sleeping soundly. Electrodes were littered about his bare chest leading to the heart rate monitor which emitted a steady beeping sound. John had always found it disturbing how low Sherlock's resting heart rate was, but then again the man did get a lot of exercise. John stared in horror as his gaze fell on the loads of scars scattered all over Sherlock's arms. No wonder Dr. Janssen wanted to refer him to a psychologist, there was only one way you could get scars in that pattern. John was thankful for one thing though, and that was that they were scars and not fresh wounds. If they were fresh wounds, John was not sure what he would do, the urge to wake Sherlock up and demand he tell John all about those scars was overwhelming as it was. But John knew that this was neither the time nor the place to make Sherlock tell him, once he was better, then John would ask about them.

~0~

The first day of treatments was almost over and John was incredibly relieved. He was exhausted but it was nothing compared to what Sherlock was feeling. An hour after the treatment had finished Sherlock became violently sick—as violently sick as someone who had hardly anything in their stomach could be, anyway. The dry heaves had shook through his frail body in waves until John was sure he was about to break. Once they were over and Sherlock lay back on the bed, John had a momentary burst of panic when he saw the vomit was mingled with blood, only to realise that Sherlock also had blood pouring from his nose. Still far from good, but a nose bleed was an awful lot better than internal bleeding.

Then the nurse had come through with fresh sheets and a fresh gown for Sherlock. The detective, being the stubborn fool he was, insisted on going through to the bathroom to change and to relieve himself without any help. A few minutes later there was a huge crashing sound which sent both John and the nurse flying into the bathroom. Sherlock had managed to change his gown but his knees had obviously given out as he was making his way out the bathroom. Since that incident Sherlock had refused to utter and single word so John spent the rest of the day supplying Sherlock with tea (which he drank if he wasn't asleep) and reading him news articles from the papers that he thought might interest him.

It was an incredible relief when Lestrade and Molly arrived late in the evening to see Sherlock. Molly's presence elicited a small smile from Sherlock, which somehow made the man look frailer than before. But that did intrigue John. He had read the card from Molly to Sherlock and he didn't understand it, but he kept on seeing Sherlock glancing at it. What was it about that card?

Both Molly and Lestrade were taken aback by Sherlock's appearance. He had a massive bruise forming on the side of his face from where he hit it when he fell, John suspected that Sherlock's entire right side was going to bruise which was going to cause the poor man even more discomfort. But the purple on his face only served to make the rest of him look even paler, almost grey even. His skinny frame was lost under the flimsy hospital sheets, his hair looked greasy and his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. But of course neither of them made any comment on his appearance. They both knew him well enough to know that it would not be appreciated.

"So, how did the treatment go?" Molly asked as she sat down in one of the chairs. In response Sherlock grunted and said no more. It didn't seem like much, but it was the most Sherlock had responded to anyone throughout the whole day. The three of them tried a few more times to get Sherlock to respond. Lestrade tried insulting Mycroft and John tried getting Sherlock to talk about to Dr. Harrison but it was to no avail. Sherlock had obviously decided he'd had enough for the day and ignored them all and very quickly fell asleep. It would have been amusing if Sherlock's situation was not so serious; the man hardly ever slept, but for the last few days that is all he had done.

The three of them talked quietly for an hour, John outlined all that had happened to Sherlock that day and then Lestrade told John all that had been going on down at the yard. Much to John's surprise it seemed that they were all pretty concerned for Sherlock's wellbeing. When it hit nine o'clock Lestrade told John to go home because he looked exhausted. As expected he was reluctant at first but after some reassurance from the DI John complied. Molly left at the same time as she was on nightshift.

Just as she walked out the door Sherlock began to stir so Lestrade watched him carefully as he fought his way back into consciousness. It was slow, but Lestrade was patient and was eventually rewarded with bleary eyes staring hazily. Sherlock took in the room around him and Lestrade remained silent, waiting for the man to get his bearings. "Where's John?" Sherlock eventually rasped.

"He's gone back to Baker Street. He's been here all day and he's tired." Sherlock was sure it was imagination but he was sure he saw a hint of regret and sadness flash through Sherlock's eyes. Once again the detective looked at the older man.

"Is he coming back?" To Lestrade that didn't sound like Sherlock asking if he was coming back that night; it seemed like Sherlock was unsure of if John would come back again. This was sick Sherlock, and his walls were obviously beginning to crumble. He would need to tell John, this insecurity needed to be dealt with.

"I think he might have a shift tomorrow morning but he will come back as soon as he can."

Sherlock didn't seem convinced and he curled up on his side, wrapping the blankets tightly around himself defensively. "You know you don't need to stay here. I am a grown man; I do not need to be treated like a child."

"I think I'll stay here if it is all the same to you." Lestrade replied gently, placing a hand on one of Sherlock's hunched shoulders. Sherlock flinched slightly but surprisingly relaxed into the touch. He was inexplicably glad that Lestrade was staying, he didn't understand why though, he was Sherlock Holmes and he thrived on solitude. But he did feel slightly more relaxed in the knowledge that he was not going to be alone. Sherlock decided not to dwell on it, if he did he might find that he didn't like what he found.

Suddenly the hand left his shoulder and for a moment Sherlock felt incredibly alone, causing a shiver to make its way down his spine. There was the sound of someone rummaging through paper, and then Lestrade started speaking in his gruff voice. "Double homicide, August 2011." A faint smile made its way onto Sherlock's lips. Cold cases.


	12. Confusion

Lestrade couldn't help but feel that reading cold cases to Sherlock was very similar to reading a bedtime story to a child. The first couple of cases Sherlock listened to avidly, soaking in every detail and clinging to each word. The DI wasn't sure whether or not he should be surprised when Sherlock insisted on seeing the photos, scanning over them enthusiastically and looking more alive than he had in some time. He managed to give some insights which would lead to the case being solved, and slip in an insult or two about Lestrade's, and the Yard's in general, intelligence. Lestrade texted Sally telling her what to look for regarding both the cases. Halfway through reading the third one Lestrade looked up when he heard the distinct, rhythmical breathing of someone who was asleep. Exactly like reading a bedtime story to a child, just a little creepier. For once though Sherlock did look calm and relaxed, which brought a little comfort to Lestrade.

~0~

He was awoken by a light tapping at the door, and his first instinct was to look at the bed to make sure Sherlock was still there. He'd run off when Lestrade was supposed to be watching the man before, he certainly was not going to risk that happening again. Thankfully Sherlock was still there and still fast asleep, looking impossibly small. There was no resemblance between the man on the bed and the man that used to swoop around a crime scene like a whirlwind.

Sally walked in the door followed by a disgruntled looking Anderson who certainly did not want to be there and was making no pretences about that fact. "How is he?" Sally asked, keeping her voice low when she saw that he was asleep.

"Who knows, it's Sherlock, he wouldn't tell us if he felt a heart attack coming on." The sergeant nodded and grunted in agreement.

"We've managed to apprehend two suspects from those cold cases Sherlock looked at last night," she commented. Anderson wasn't paying attention to what was being said; instead he was enthralled by the image of the sick detective and casually wandered to the man's bedside to get a better view. As Anderson approached Sherlock's eyes flickered open and he looked blearily up at the man. When Sherlock was well their encounters were always loaded with venom and hatred. However what was he supposed to say to the detective? It was just wrong to insult a patient suffering from leukaemia, even if said patient was as obnoxious as Sherlock Holmes. So what was he supposed to say? Hope you get well soon? No, that just didn't feel right. After all his deliberation it was Sherlock who spoke first. "What're you doing here?" Sherlock demanded, sounding slightly terrifying despite the raspy nature of his voice. Anderson opened his mouth to say something, if he was honest he didn't know what, but once again Sherlock beat him it. "Wait, don't tell me. You're here to kill me so that there'll be a murder you'll finally be able to solve."

That comment threw Anderson straight out of his 'try to be nice to Sherlock' mode and back into normality. "I could easily kill you right this moment; look at how pathetic you are." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them and he instantly regretted them. He didn't need to see the intense glares from Sally and Lestrade to know that he had gone too far. Before he had a chance to apologise the DI's voice boomed loudly in his ears. "Leave, right now!" He didn't need telling twice. Lestrade didn't think he'd ever seen someone move so fast, Sherlock didn't even move that fast when he was injured and was trying to avoid John's ministrations.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock," Sally started. "I thought he should come and see you because he seemed to think you'd fallen back into… habits. He was saying that you weren't really sick but you were just going through withdrawal and wanted to cover it up so John didn't get angry." At the mention of his blogger's name Sherlock curled up on his side repeating John's name in a voice no louder than a murmur. Of all the responses Sally and Lestrade were expecting that definitely was not one of them. Perhaps they should call John. First of all though they needed to talk to Anderson and make sure that Sherlock was okay.

"You go and talk to Anderson, make sure he comes through and apologises to Sherlock before he leaves. I'll make sure he's okay," Lestrade whispered to Sally, nodding his head slightly towards Sherlock. Lestrade watched as Sally wordlessly left the room, taking care to close the door quietly behind her, before turning his attention back to the form on the bed. The blanket had slipped off Sherlock and the DI could see the vertebrae sticking harshly out of Sherlock's back and he internally hissed; now he could see just why John was always trying to get food into the man. When he was up and about, dressed in his shirt, jacket and coat, anyone could tell he was skinny, but this was taking it to a whole new and ridiculous level. The man looked as if he had absolutely no meat on him just like the first time Lestrade had met him. There was a line of thought Lestrade did not want to delve into right then, or ever come to think of it.

"Sherlock, it's alright, I won't let him back in if you don't want me to. What he said was out of line." The DI got closer to the younger man and crouched down right next to the bed so his face was only about a foot away from Sherlock's. "Come on mate, do you want me to call John?" Lestrade knew that John had a shift that morning, unfortunately they still had to earn money to live, but he knew that if Sherlock needed him the doctor would come running. John was good like that; he'd never met someone who could differentiate between Sherlock being purposefully difficult and Sherlock genuinely not knowing how to act. Lestrade didn't know how John managed to get out of working as often as he did, being dragged away by Sherlock for cases in the middle of a shift, but the DI reckoned that Mycroft had something to do with that. Maybe he'd help and get the both of them more time off work.

At the mention of John, Sherlock looked directly at Lestrade and for a moment he thought that he was responding to the question, as it happened he was not. A moment later Lestrade noticed the slight green tinge that marred Sherlock's pallor and he grabbed an emesis basin with one had whilst pulling Sherlock into a sitting position with the other. The man was far too light. He managed to get the basin under Sherlock's mouth just in time and watched as bones which formed ridges in Sherlock's skin heaved and shifted violently with every retch. Silently he pressed the call button for a nurse; surely they could give the poor man something to keep him from throwing up. Sally and Anderson appeared at the door but Lestrade waved them off, knowing Sherlock would want as few people to see him as possible.

Just as he stopped vomiting the nurse walked in and took the emesis basin off Sherlock and helped him remove the small remnants of sick that clung to the corners of his mouth. "Is there anything you can give him to stop him throwing up all the time?" Lestrade asked.

"He is on something but it's obviously not strong enough. I'll inform Dr Janssen that he'll need something stronger." He glanced at the younger man and his heart practically broke in two, he always knew he cared about the detective but he didn't realise quite how much until that very moment. The man just looked so young. He was lost in the sheets, leaning back on the mattress, and he looked completely done in. The whole of one side of his face was covered in swirls of purple and blue bruises from where he had hit the floor he previous day. The other half of his face was ghostly white, almost transparent, and his cheekbones jutted out, making him look emaciated. It was his eyes that got to Lestrade the most though. His eyes seemed to be covered with a glassy sheen which made them appear cerulean with flecks of aqua green spread throughout them. Lestrade did not want to think about the possibility that the sheen was caused by unshed tears. Sherlock Holmes crying was a possibility so far removed from normality that it wasn't worth consideration. Lestrade pulled out his phone, perhaps it was time to call John.

~0~

Sherlock knew who was standing next to his bed before he even opened his eyes, he could feel the idiocy flowing off the man before he even saw him. But what did he normally say to Anderson, he knew he didn't like him but what did he say? Crap, his mind was slipping; it couldn't be slipping, not so soon. It must be all those drugs the doctors put him on, it must be that Dr. Harrison. He didn't trust her; there was something shifty about the woman. She must have done something to stop him thinking straight, to stop him from finding out whatever it was she was doing. He did actually feel a bit odd, he felt hot and cold all at the same time and his head hurt and was all fuzzy and damn it he couldn't think!

"What're you doing here? Wait, don't tell me. You're here to kill me so that there'll be a murder you'll finally be able to solve." Ah yes, that's right, they insulted each other. Sherlock felt himself relax, he had managed to remember, Dr. Harrison had not beaten him yet, but that taught him that he needed to be a lot more wary about what she put into his body. He'd also need to watch John, make sure she didn't give anything to poison him. The army doctor was an idiot as far as Sherlock was concerned but he was an awful lot less idiotic than most people, not mentioning any oncologists, and John was onto Dr. Harrison too.

"I could easily kill right this moment; look at how pathetic you are." That hurt more than it had any right too, why did he suddenly care what Anderson thought? But the man was right, he was pathetic. All he did was sleep; he couldn't even control his body enough to keep a meal down. If a criminal entered the room, shot Lestrade, then walked away Sherlock wouldn't be able to catch them. What use was he to anyone? Pathetic. Freak. Useless. Cruel words echoed around his head tauntingly, mocking him.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock, I thought he should come and see you because he seemed to think you'd fallen back into… habits. He was saying that you weren't really sick but you were just going through withdrawal and wanted to cover it up so John didn't get angry." Sherlock barely heard anything of what the woman said; the only thing he heard was 'John'. John wasn't there, he'd finally left. He'd gotten bored and was disgusted by how useless the detective had become and had left. The detective did not blame his blogger; he was impressed that the man had stuck around for so long; frankly he was surprised that John had ever shown any desire to live with him at all.

Sherlock manoeuvred his body so he was curled up on his side, knees against his chest, to defend himself from the outside world. As a boy he would often curl up like this and not move for hours. It made Mummy worried, Father angry, but Mycroft understood. Mycroft knew how loud the outside world could be. Suddenly the kind face of Lestrade appeared in front of him, his lips were moving but Sherlock didn't hear anything. He was feeling more strange, the world was beginning to move around him making him feel like he might roll out of the bed and also slightly nauseous. Then the DI said something about John and Sherlock's gaze shot up, but all this achieved was to exacerbate the nausea and moments later the detective found himself in a vertical position and vomiting into a nasty-feeling cardboard emesis basin.

There were people talking and then someone removed the basin from his clutches. He wanted more than anything to drift off to sleep, but he mustn't. The amount he was sleeping had contributed to John's leaving, he was sure of it. If he was less pathetic and could train himself to get as little sleep as he normally did perhaps John would come back and maybe Lestrade would never leave. Perhaps. It was a very distant hope, but it was the best thing he had so he was going to cling onto it.

Someone was dabbing a damp cloth against his face, taking the acidic bile from his features, then he was being pushed back against the mattress. "Get some sleep Sherlock," the DI said, he seemed very far away. Sherlock shook his head, he had to stay awake; it would bring John back.

"John," Sherlock muttered, staring up at Lestrade.

"Sherlock, you need to sleep. I'll call John and tell him you want to see him but he won't get here for another hour or so." The detective looked up at the older man, an expression of utter bewilderment spread across his features. Why was Lestrade saying John would be there in an hour? Didn't he understand? John had abandoned him as he had expected.

"Not coming back," Sherlock muttered causing Greg to frown. "Need to stay awake, can't be boring for John." Lestrade didn't know what was going on but an idea was forming. He hoped against hope that he was wrong. Tentatively he placed the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead and it was instantly shaken off. The skin was warm but not dangerously so. However, Lestrade did know enough about medicine to know that any sort of fever, be it high grade or low grade, whilst undergoing chemotherapy was very bad news. He just hoped it had been caused by something other than an infection.

~0~

Lestrade waited for a doctor to turn up to check on , but while he was waiting he texted John, telling him exactly what had been going on and that the detective appeared to have a slight fever. About five minutes later he received a reply saying that he was in a taxi and would probably be there in half an hour. The DI had been hoping John would respond in such a way, although he had seen Sherlock in a similar state before when he was going through withdrawal, there was something about the doctor that helped the detective relax. That and Sherlock kept on muttering John's name which was odd to say the least.

The sound of the younger man's breathing evening out into deep and rhythmical breaths was like music to Lestrade's ears. Evidently he had lost the battle to stay awake; the man would be angry when he awoke, but for now it would do him a world of good. He leaned back in the chair, placing both his feet up on the edge of the bed, and opened a newspaper just in time for Dr. Janssen to walk in. The doctor opened his mouth to say something but Lestrade put his finger to his lips indicating that the man should be quiet. Sighing, the DI pulled himself to his feet, suddenly feeling an exhaustion that settled right into his bones.

"Sir, I think you need to go home and get some rest. You've been here all night haven't you?" Dr. Janssen whispered, looking Lestrade up and down with concern. In response he nodded.

"I don't want to leave him," Lestrade replied, watching Sherlock like a hawk to make sure the man did not stir. "John's on his way across, once he's here I'll go back home. I've got the day off today so I'll be able to get some rest."

"Make sure that you do. Now, I hear you were worried because of how much he was throwing up?"

"That's right." Their voices were still low and thankfully Sherlock did not seem to notice the noise.

"That is concerning. Vomiting is a common side effect of chemotherapy but he is on an antiemetic which should have taken care of that." Dr. Janssen scanned through Sherlock's chart and hummed to himself as he thought. "I think we'll put him on a stronger antiemetic at a slightly higher dosage and see how things go from there."

The doctor scribbled something indecipherable on the chart and hung it back on Sherlock's bed before looking back up at Lestrade. "There's something wrong," the DI said, unsure of how to describe it. "He seemed out of it earlier, he was really confused. I think he has a slight fever, because he felt a little warm when I touched his forehead before." Small crinkles appeared on Dr. Janssen's forehead as he furrowed his brow in concern.

"How long ago?" he asked, heading over to the table next to Sherlock's bed and picking a thermometer.

"I don't know: ten, fifteen minutes ago." Gently, so as not to wake the man up, the doctor put the probe into Sherlock's ear and a few moments later removed it when the screen started flashing a bright blue.

"Well it's only a low grade fever, 38.1 degrees. It could be an infection but considering he only started chemotherapy yesterday that seems highly unlikely, normally an infection wouldn't start presenting symptoms until a week after treatment starts and that is the fastest."

"Well, Sherlock has never been a normal person."

"I gathered as much," the doctor said kindly. "Of course since he is undergoing chemotherapy I'll do a blood test to look for any infection or inflammation and I'll put him on broad spectrum antibiotics in case we are dealing with an infection."

"What do you think we are dealing with? You don't seem that convinced about it being an infection." Lestrade glanced over to the bed again. Without realising it they had both allowed their voices to gradually grow louder, thankfully Sherlock had not even stirred.

"Honestly? I think it's a stress fever."

"A what?"

"A stress fever, technically speaking it's not a proper medical diagnosis and I know many doctors, good doctors, who would say they're not a real thing. I do think they exist. Some people, if their stress levels reach a certain point, can develop a low grade fever. Your friend here has been under a great deal of stress lately so it really wouldn't surprise me if that is what is going on."

After a brief lull in the conversation Dr. Janssen left to retrieve a needle and a few vials to take a blood sample. "While I'm here I might as well get enough blood to look at his white blood cell levels," he commented when Lestrade looked confusedly at the number of vials he had retrieved. "I'm afraid we're going to have to wake him up, he might prefer it if you're the one to do it." Lestrade nodded in agreement.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called gently but firmly as he crouched down next to the bed. "I'm afraid you're going to have to wake up again now."

"Go 'way," the detective muttered groggily, turning his head away from the older man.

"Sorry mate but you need to wake up." It upset Lestrade that he had to wake Sherlock up so soon, the man clearly needed and wanted rest despite refusing it so adamantly a little earlier. "Dr. Janssen needs a blood sample."

"Not 'gain," Sherlock replied, burying his face into the pillow and waving a hand in Lestrade's general direction to make him go away. He really must be out of it to be showing such vulnerability, because at that moment that is what he was, vulnerable.

At that moment John appeared at the door, face etched with worry, but he waited there watching as Lestrade tried to rouse the exhausted detective. "Come on, you can go back to sleep in a minute Sherlock. Hey look, John's here!" Greg said in surprise, that journey had obviously taken John less time than he anticipated. But the word 'John' seemed to incite life back into the lethargic man. His head snapped up in the direction of the door and his face bore a look of utter confusion. He'd thought John had left so why was he back? Why would he want to come back? "John?" he asked, voice croaking slightly.

"Hi Sherlock, I hear you need a blood test. You must be sick of them by now." The detective nodded in agreement but made no move to present his arm to Dr. Janssen.

"I bet you a fiver you can't predict the results of the blood test." Sherlock swallowed slowly and looked at the ceiling thoughtfully before reluctantly stretching out an arm. Quickly, before Sherlock could change his mind, Dr. Janssen set about rolling up the arm of his dressing down.

"I'll need more information before I can compose a reasonable hypothesis." To his credit Dr. Janssen seemed to take the admittedly slightly odd situation in his stride.

"You're exhibiting a low grade fever but no other signs of infection. We're doing blood tests to look for an infection, for any viruses, for indicators of inflammation and to see what your white blood cell count is to see if we have calculated the correct dosages of your chemotherapy drugs." By the time he had finished he had donned some blue gloves and had tied the tourniquet around Sherlock's forearm. As he cleaned the crook of Sherlock's elbow with alcohol the detective ignored him, obviously considering the problem at hand.

Just as Dr. Janssen inserted the needle Sherlock started to talk, watching in fascination as the crimson liquid surged into the small vial. "Everything will be within normal parameters. There will be no foreign bodies present and all protein levels indicative of inflammation will be within the normal levels indicating that there is no inflammation present. My white blood cell count will still be way above average but lower than last time." He kept on watching his arm until all of the vials were filled and the tourniquet removed. Dr. Janssen placed a small plaster where the needle had gone in much to Sherlock's disdain.

"Alright then Mr. Holmes, I'll let you get back to sleep now." Sherlock shook his head and the doctor frowned. "You're on high doses of chemotherapy; there is no shame in needing more rest than usual." This time he didn't even respond and John shook his head in despair.

"Sherlock, get some rest, I'll be here when you wake up." But the man lay there stubbornly; his eyes wide open despite the purple circles under his eyes.

"Mind if I talk to you outside?" Dr. Janssen asked quietly, both John and Lestrade nodded their heads.

"We'll be just outside if need any of us," John said kindly.

"Why would I need you?" Sherlock replied, bitterly. Why didn't John just leave already? Why was he playing this game?

"No reason at all," John replied with a sigh.

Once the door was closed Dr. Janssen started after quickly glancing into the room. "I just wanted to say how much I admire the two of you; for all that you're doing for him. I'm sure he appreciates it."

"We're his friends, we're not exactly just going to leave him," Lestrade commented.

"Well, some people would abandon their friends because it's easier than watching them battle with, and possibly lose against, this disease. But what I am saying is what you're doing for him is beyond and above the call of duty. I've seen far too many people with some form of cancer going through chemotherapy with hardly any visitors. Let me tell you those are the people that are least likely to make it and watching them fade away, all alone, is heart breaking. You're giving him a reason to survive and therefore a much better chance at beating this." John nodded his head in acknowledgement.

"Thank you," he said smiling. The three of them looked into Sherlock's room and grinned to see him fast asleep again.

"He is going to be angry when he wakes up," John commented ruefully. "Now, Greg, go home and get some sleep. You look dead on your feet."

"You do not need to tell me that twice," he replied. "Call me if you need anything," he said as he turned his back and nearly ran straight into Dr. Harrison.

"Sorry," he muttered before heading off, already feeling the desire to collapse into bed. Perhaps he should get a cab instead of driving.

Dr. Harrison was scowling and she looked even more unpleasant than usual. In her hands she carried some bags of clear fluid which John presumed was Sherlock's chemo drugs. The same timid nurse as the day before stood a few steps back, obviously eager to stay out of the woman's way thus avoiding her wrath. Dr. Harrison stretched out her hand to open Sherlock's door, not even registering John's or Dr. Janssen's presence. The older doctor intervened before she could open the door.

"Dr. Harrison, how pleasant to see you," he said, giving her a smile which seemed sincere.

"And you," she replied, trying and failing to return the look.

"I was wondering if it would be possible for you to come back a little later, perhaps in an hour or so. I've already had to wake him once," he said, nodding his head towards the vials filled with red. "I don't think it would be in his best interest to wake him again." She barely managed to contain the scowl that attempted to spread across her face.

"I'm sorry, I have a very busy schedule today and if I don't administer his medication now then I won't be able to do it today. It's as simple as that." John hadn't thought it possible for him to dislike her any more than he had before but as the words left her mouth he realised he had been wrong.

Without another thought she barged into Sherlock's room, John followed the nurse in and Dr. Janssen handed the vials of blood to a nurse before entering the room as well.

"Good morning Mr. Holmes," she called loudly as she reached the side of his bed. He flinched violently away from her but she ignored him. Instead she busily began hanging bags and attaching tubes with the assistance of the nurse. John was not standing for the way she was treating his best friend.

"Listen here," he said angrily, quieting his voice slightly as he saw Sherlock flinch away from him. He was still half asleep and therefore his usually stoic façade was down. "You have no right to barge in here like you own the place. You can see this is not a good time so let him get some rest and come back in an hour."

"Don't need rest, not tired," Sherlock muttered groggily.

"See, he's not tired. Anyway, as I explained before, it simply would not be possible to give him this treatment, the treatment he needs to survive, at any other time today. It is either now or never. Also, Dr. Watson, I know my patient is important to you but if I ever feel like you are threatening me again I will not hesitate to call security."

John realised he had lost that battle and made a mental note to call Mycroft later. He knew Sherlock had said he wanted to keep Dr. Harrison as his oncologist but it wasn't out of a liking for the woman, it was out of mere curiosity. John was not willing to sit back and watch his best friend suffer at the hands of his doctor, of all people, to satisfy his curiosity. Dr. Janssen looked apologetically at John and John shrugged his shoulders, there wasn't really anything either of them could do.

~0~

An hour into the treatment, John was sitting at Sherlock's bedside reading posts on his blog. Most of them were sympathy messages from people who had read the article in the newspaper. There were a few cases from people who were obviously ignorant of the current events but there were a few from people saying the detective had got what was coming to him. The doctor's blood boiled as he read those comments. Sherlock was a brilliant, if slightly odd, man and the fact that some people could sit there and say he deserved the suffering was frankly astonishing and disgraceful.

The doctor looked up as a groan emanated from the bed. Sherlock was moving around a little, he was gripping the sheets with white knuckles. He let out another shallow groan and his eyes crumpled in discomfort. This wasn't a nightmare, John knew what Sherlock's nightmares looked like and they were always much more violent than this. The moans sounded like sounds of agony rather than fear, which meant Sherlock must be in much more pain than he was letting on when he was awake. Carefully John leaned over the bed and pressed the button to call the nurse. His heart ached for the younger man, why he felt he had to hide his discomfort John did not know, but that wouldn't stop him, or any of Sherlock's friends, from trying their upmost to help him even if he refused to ask for it.


	13. Cracked Facade

No matter how hard he tried he could not rid the sound of Sherlock's moans from his mind. They were engrained, tormenting him as he tried to focus on his book. Why didn't he just say he was in pain? Normally he had no qualms with disturbing people or asking things of people. He knew that Sherlock did not like admitting weakness but even he must realise that people would understand, he had leukaemia for goodness sake. It wasn't as if anyone was going to accuse him of being weak for asking for help. John shook his head; he had to remember that Sherlock was the man in question. Who knew the mysterious way in which his mind worked.

John looked up from that book that he wasn't reading as he heard his friend shifting in the bed sheets. He was still fast asleep, the poison that was supposed to be helping him still flowing into his veins. Since the nurse had fetched the doctor who had upped the dosage of the painkiller Sherlock had slept soundly. The increase of the antiemetic seemed to be working, Sherlock hadn't vomited yet during that chemo session which was a good sign. It was about time too that he had some good fortune on his side, his body had been through hell and back since his diagnosis, he really didn't need more of a battering that he'd already had.

"Hi," came the timid voice of Molly Hooper from the doorway. She crept soundlessly across the room towards the bed, making sure she did not awaken Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson followed her, carrying a large bag which was sure to be filled with food. John smiled as he saw them both.

"How is he?" Mrs. Hudson whispered, placing the bag on the floor and kissing John on the cheek as a way of greeting.

"He's doing alright today as far as I can make out. They've got him on a higher dosage of painkillers and more medication to stop him vomiting. Greg seemed to think he had a fever earlier on but judging from what the doctor has written on his chart he doesn't seem to think anything of it."

"Poor dear," muttered Mrs. Hudson and John and Molly hummed in agreement.

~0~

Lestrade rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes. He could not sleep despite the fact exhaustion weighed down heavily upon him, causing his very bones to ache with weariness. And, as usual, it was Sherlock who was keeping him awake. Not in the sense that he usually was, calling for cases and bothering him with evidence, but rather how he'd thought John had left him. The DI found himself longing for the old days where Sherlock would call him at four in the morning regarding a case. If—no, when—Sherlock made it through he would never moan about those phone calls again. They were infinitely better than what was keeping him awake.

Surely Sherlock realised how highly John thought of him. Sure, he was a pain in the ass, but John would never leave, especially in such dire circumstances. Sherlock must know this; he was a genius after all. Lestrade had to remind himself that he may be a genius but he was a socially inept genius. Things which seemed natural to most people were as foreign to Sherlock as quantum mechanics was to Lestrade. The idiot probably didn't realise that he and John were friends at all. He really needed to know this, to know that he had a number of friends who wanted to help him and he needed to understand that asking for help would not make them think less of him.

The DI sat up in bed and groped for the glass of water by his bed. The room was dark but the daylight was breaking through the gap between the curtains. He took a sip of the water before deciding he needed something stronger than water. He padded through to the kitchen and opened the cupboard above the sink before pulling out a half full bottle of amber liquid. His cousin had given him the whisky for Christmas and he only took it out when he felt he really needed it. This was one of those times, it would help calm his frayed nerves and allow him to sleep. Once he was rested he would be able to decide what to do regarding the whole situation.

~0~

Hushed voices drifted into his consciousness, pulling him back to reality. The deep set ache which had been plaguing him for so long had diminished, which was pleasant. Perhaps he was getting better. He kept his eyes shut, he didn't want anyone else knowing that he was still awake quite yet. This was the closest he'd gotten to privacy since the whole thing started and he wasn't about to give it up easily. Nobody knew he was awake, he was free to think without risk of interruption.

He was definitely less achy than he had been and a little less nauseous. The sickness was still there, lying in wait at the pit of his stomach, but it was much better. Sherlock lifted his right hand slightly, hoping that nobody would notice. Tremors shook through his arm, damn, that still hadn't gone. It was irritating and each time he tried to pick anything else he'd see a look of pity shoot over the face of whoever was at his bedside.

Pity. He didn't need or want their pity. Why did they pity him anyway? Why were they still here? There were people in this hospital that deserved their concern more than he did. What had he done to deserve their concern? Especially John's, why was he being so nice to him? He could not fathom why John was still there. What was he planning? He was obviously waiting for something to happen or else he would have left. Maybe he was hoping if everything went south Sherlock would write him into his will. It didn't take a genius to figure out the detective had a fair amount of cash sitting in a bank account waiting to be spent and his blogger was always bleating on about how he couldn't afford this, that and the next thing.

John never struck him as the sort of person who would be motivated by money though. He'd have to think about it, if he thought about it he was sure to find the right answer. Sherlock pried his eyes open and groaned when he saw the chemo drugs going into his arm. It took a few moments but he figured out that they must have increased the dosages of at least the antiemetic but most likely the pain killers he was on. It had taken too long to work that out, he needed them reduced. Growling in frustration he turned his head to where he knew either John or Lestrade would be sat. It was John, the doctor smiled at him when he saw he was awake but the smile did not meet his eyes. He looked sad. Sherlock was taken aback; that affected him more than it should have done. Why on earth would John look sad? He resisted the urge to ask John if he was alright, that was too sentimental. Instead he tried to figure out what food Mrs. Hudson had concealed in the bag sitting at her feet. There was definitely bread in there but the other smells felt familiar but he could not place them. Damn drugs were clouding his thoughts.

"Turn them down," Sherlock ordered. He looked confused for a few moments before his expression morphed into one of understanding, he didn't look like he was going to concede however.

"Absolutely not," John replied, folding his arms stubbornly.

I need to think! I can't think with these here so turn them down or, preferably, turn them off." Sherlock was getting worked up and he could feel himself getting out of breath. But he didn't want the drugs, they were making him lose his greatest faculty.

"Sherlock," John said trying to soothe him. The detective could see Molly and Mrs. Hudson watching in the background, he didn't want them to see him like this; he didn't want anyone to see him so weak. "You don't need to think right now. What you need to do is get better and vomiting every five minutes and being in unnecessary amounts of pain are not going to help you get better."

Sherlock could sense that John was not going to give in and that made him angry, what right did John have to make decisions about this sort of thing? Wasn't Sherlock within his rights to request less medication? Perhaps Mycroft had something to do with this, making it so he did not have control over his treatment. Either way he was not happy. "Either turn them down or leave," Sherlock hissed, trying to keep the breathlessness from his voice.

"I'm not turning them down."

"Then you're going to have to leave."

"Sherlock…"

"Leave!" he shouted, after which he was no longer able to stave off the panting.

"Fine," John conceded, standing up angrily. "If that's what you want I'll go." With that he stormed out, leaving the door open behind him. Molly stood up, looking at him sadly before following John out. Sherlock wanted to be alone and she was not going to be the one to deny him that. He had such little privacy she was not going to force her presence on him when she was not wanted.

Mrs. Hudson stood up and walked next to Sherlock's bedside. He watched her, not able to shout at her and tell her to leave too. She ran gentle hands through his curls and gave the same sad smile that John had given him earlier. "He's only trying to help you dear," she said quietly before kissing him on the forehead. "We all want to help, we just don't know how." She placed the bag of food on the table by Sherlock's bed. "Try and eat something if you can. Someone will be up with you later," she said before leaving, closing the door quietly behind her.

The room was deathly quiet without his friends there. He could hear his heart beating in his ears and he finally allowed his breaths to come out in loud gasps. He'd really done it now, he'd lost his temper at John and sent him away, there was no way he was going to be coming back now. The detective could feel panic welling up from within him, and he gripped the bed sheets hard enough to make his knuckles turn white. He needed to leave, being here was suffocating.

Checking to make sure here wasn't plugged into any machinery that would start screaming if he disconnected it he began to pull all of the tubes that were attached to him out. It felt oddly satisfying to be free of all those. Tentatively he tried putting weight onto his legs. They felt a bit wobbly but apart from that they were alright. The breathlessness was still plaguing him but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. Somehow he managed to get himself dressed, a task which normally took him two minutes at most but now took him over ten. He was grateful that none of the nurses or doctors decided to come and check on him during that time.

It angered him but he had to perch on the edge of the bed for a couple of minutes to get his breath back. Whether he liked it or not he was going to have to take this slowly. Black spots were dancing at the edges of his vision and he was unsure as to if it was caused by lack of oxygen or the exhaustion which he could feel settling in his bones. It made him want to scream how weak he had become since this all started.

After a few minutes Sherlock pushed himself back into a standing position and wrapped his jacket tightly around himself, he'd suddenly become rather cold. Swinging the door to his room open he got the first hint of freedom he'd had in some time and it felt fantastic. He knew he should relish in it while it lasted, it probably wouldn't be long before Mycroft realised he was gone and then launched a search party. The idiot wouldn't understand that he didn't want to run away, he just wanted to have a sense of independence. That was something that he'd lost.

It required a lot of concentration, trying to walk down the corridor without stumbling or walking into anything. The trembling in his limbs was getting worse and he could feel it affecting his ability to control them properly. The lack of painkillers was also becoming apparent as the deep set ache in his bones began to worsen more and more. But he kept on going, he needed to get out even if it was for a few minutes and now he had started his pride would not allow him to turn around.

A nurse walked past him and he tensed him but she didn't seem to even register him. It was probably because he had changed out of his hospital gown. After that he relaxed a little, confident that he wasn't going to get caught before making it outside unless Mycroft was being more paranoid than usual, that was not entirely out of the question.

The detective wasn't really sure where he was going, he'd barely been conscious when he was taken down but he thought he'd retained enough of a memory to make it back to main reception. He was right, he managed to make it to the lift and pressed the button to call it. Whilst waiting for it to come down he rested heavily on the wall breathing heavily. He wanted to make it outside, preferably somewhere hidden from view to give himself a few extra minutes of freedom. He didn't think he'd make it too far.

As the lift arrived Sherlock chuckled to himself, he could practically see the indignant face John would be pulling if he knew his plan. He knew that really it was foolish, could ruin his chances of getting better, he just wanted to be out of that hospital so much it was worth the risk. The lift pinged and he stepped out, he found himself in another corridor but he knew that reception, and therefore the exit, was just around the corner.

When he made it out the air was cool but it was dry and the sun was out. The fresh air instantly made him feel drowsy but he couldn't help the small smile which crept onto his face, this was a small taste of freedom. Wearing his jacket and being outside he could almost fool himself into thinking everything was back to normal, that he wasn't sick, and that he would soon receive a text from Lestrade asking him to come and help out on a case. He wanted that to happen so much it physically hurt him.

Settling down against a tree about a hundred metres from the entrance Sherlock shut his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of being out of the stuffy hospital room. His bones ached terribly and nausea was beginning to well up within him. He was pretty sure he looked a mess and tremors shook his limbs but at that moment he was the happiest he had been since the whole thing started.

~0~

John, Mrs. Hudson and Molly sat in the hospital drinking what they claimed was coffee but tasted more like hot water with a bit of dirt mixed in. The doctor had really wanted to storm off back to the flat after Sherlock had made him leave but something stopped him, and that something was not Mrs. Hudson telling him to give Sherlock a bit of time and then go back up. Deep down he knew the idiot was just scared, or whatever the Sherlock equivalent of scared was, and he'd got angry and sent them all away. But it was getting to him, Sherlock not letting him in at all. He knew that the man would be reluctant to but this was just ridiculous. Perhaps he didn't want John around at all. The thought of that caused a twinge of something in John's chest but he decided it would be best not to think too much about that.

He opened his mouth to voice his thoughts to the two women he was sitting with when his phone started ringing. He picked it up, wondering who it could be, and groaned when he saw the caller ID. Smiling apologetically at Molly and Mrs. Hudson he answered. "Hello Mycroft."

"Ah, Dr. Watson, you're still at the hospital I take it?"

"Yes, why?" He wanted this conversation to be over with as soon as he could. Mycroft always spoke like he knew something that John didn't, in reality that probably was the case, but it always made John feel slightly nervous.

"Well since you're still there it'd be wonderful if you could locate my brother. He seems to have disappeared from his room again."

In despair John rested his forehead against his free hand and groaned. "Right, do you have any idea where he might have gone, try and narrow the search?" At this Molly's and Mrs. Hudson's heads shot up, they obviously managed to get the general gist of the conversation.

"I have requested the footage from the CCTV cameras but they are yet to be available to me so I am unable to help you at this moment. However he will not be up on the roof again. He wouldn't go to the same place, that's not Sherlock's pattern." John didn't really want to ask about how Mycroft knew what Sherlock's pattern was. How many times had the younger Holmes tried to evade detection of the elder?

"Well he won't have gone far, he's in no condition to get far from the hospital. He'll be a bit conspicuous in his gown anyway."

"No," said Mycroft. "He got changed before leaving."

"Well by the time he got to reception he'd be exhausted most likely. We'll look around outside the hospital and see if he's there. I'll text you and let you know if we find him." Without waiting for a reply John hung up and left the cafeteria. Molly and Mrs. Hudson followed, having heard enough to know what they were supposed to do.

~0~

After ten minutes of searching the large grassy area outside the hospital Molly finally stumbled across Sherlock's figure, slumped unmoving against a tree. A sudden wave of panic washed over her and she fell to her knees by his side. Hurriedly she placed two fingers against the pulse point on his neck and sighed with relief to find a heartbeat, it was fast but it was there. "Sherlock," she called gently, trying to rouse him. "Sherlock," she tried again, slightly louder, patting his face gently, his pale skin was cool to the touch. A loud groan escaped his lips and his eyes fluttered open.

"Hey," she said smiling at him, his jaw cupped in her hand. Normally she would never get to do anything like that, so he must really be out of it to have put up no resistance. "Just a warning, John's on the warpath." She turned and called John who was about twenty metres away, looking among another group of trees. He came running as soon as she shouted as did Mrs. Hudson at a somewhat slower pace. She turned her attention back to Sherlock and frowned as she noticed his breath was coming out in short pants.

Before she could do anything about it John was kneeling by her side and he had Sherlock's wrist in his hand, taking his pulse. "You are a real idiot Sherlock," he berated and the detective looked at him blearily. "Your breathing is way off and your pulse is up," he muttered to himself. He felt Mrs. Hudson arriving behind him and gasping but he ignored her, he needed to focus. The man-child really did not look at all well. "Molly, go inside and get a doctor, I think he might need oxygen and he's not going to be able to walk back up to his room." She nodded and stood up before running back towards the hospital.

"Are you with me Sherlock?" he asked, he was still annoyed with the man for running off but concern was overriding that frustration. Something incoherent was emitted from Sherlock's lips and John took that as a yes. "Good, just stay focussed on me alright. Once we get some oxygen into you you'll feel much better and I'll be having some serious words with you. I mean what were you thinking, coming out here?" John knew he was rambling but he wanted to keep Sherlock's attention, it would be better for him to remain awake until he was inside and warmed up, his skin was cool to the touch despite the fact he had his jacket on.

"You may be Sherlock Holmes but even your immune system is going to be struggling when you have leukaemia and in the midst of an intense round of chemotherapy. There was a reason I hadn't taken you outside, the doctor's weren't keeping you in there to drive you mad you know." At this point Sherlock lifted his head to look at John, eyes glassy and bloodshot. That look harrowed the doctor, he looked so vacant, but he suddenly realised what was about to happen. He jumped out of the way but he wouldn't have been hit even if he hadn't moved. Painful looking heaves once again rattled through the fragile frame bringing forth nothing but caustic bile which landed on Sherlock's jacket. If Sherlock was lucid enough he'd be really angry about that. "See, that's another reason you should have stayed where we left you, there was a good reason you were on all of that medication."

~0~

Once in reception Molly looked around her, she wasn't sure who would be best to approach about this. However, luck was on her side. She had only met Dr. Janssen briefly but he happened to be walking through reception and she managed to recognise him. "D.r Janssen!" she called, ignoring the stares from the patients. He turned to face her as she ran across the room. His face was blank and he didn't recognise her but at that point she really didn't care. "I don't know if you remember me but I'm friends with Sherlock Holmes. He left the hospital when there was no one in his room and now he's outside and John says he needs oxygen and he won't be able to walk back up to his room." She looked up at him, hoping he didn't think she was completely mad for that outburst; she just wanted to get it all out as quickly as she could so he could go and help Sherlock.

"I need oxygen," he said to one of the nurses who had come across to make sure everything that was alright. "And a wheelchair," he said as a second thought. She nodded and hurried off. "Where are they?" he asked Molly, turning his attention back to her.

"On the grassy area just outside. He's sitting against a tree out there."

"Ok, you wait for the nurse and show her where to go when she comes back. I'll go out now." He hurried out the door leaving Molly standing alone in the middle of the reception.

~0~

John turned when he felt someone kneeling down next to him. A sense of relief washed over him when he saw it was Dr. Janssen, he was one of the few doctors John had met that he actually had confidence in. "Mr. Holmes," Dr. Janssen said loudly, demanding his attention, whilst picking up his wrist to take his pulse. Sherlock looked at the man, he was a little more lucid than when Molly first found him but he wasn't much better, he was still incredibly lethargic. How he'd managed to get all the way down without any help John wasn't sure but he was certainly paying for it now.

"How're you feeling Mr. Holmes?" he asked, putting Sherlock's wrist back down gently.

"Bleh," he replied, John was fairly sure that was not what he intended to say but it was probably a fairly adequate description.

"If you don't mind me saying you look it," he said kindly. "You know, when I put patients in a room they normally stay there, this is the second time you've done this. Next time you plan an excursion I fully expect you to invite me along." John chuckled but Sherlock looked blankly at the doctor. His breathing did seem to have calmed slightly though it was still far too rapid for John's liking and he didn't know if it was his imagination but it seemed that Sherlock's pale skin was acquiring a blue tinge. He really did hope it was his imagination.

Dr. Janssen placed the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead. "You feel cold Mr. Holmes; you know it was a bad idea to come out here." Sighing John slipped his own jacket off, the jacket he'd had to sneak out from under Sherlock's pillow while he was asleep, and wrapped it around his friend's shoulders. It wouldn't do much but it might help to fend off a bit of the chill.

At that moment Molly and a nurse arrived, Molly pushing a wheelchair and the nurse carrying an oxygen canister. Thanking the nurse, Dr. Janssen took the canister off her and unhooked the mask. "Mr. Holmes, I'm just going to cover your nose and mouth with this, it'll make breathing a bit easier on you." There was no response but he held the mask in place and switched on the oxygen flow. Sherlock's breathing almost immediately calmed much to John's relief and the blue hue was replaced by pale skin.

Dr. Janssen tried to get Sherlock to hold the mask on but the man could barely grip the mask let alone hold it on his face. In the end the group of them stayed huddled around the tree while Dr Janssen held Sherlock's hand against the mask which was pressed to his face. They stood there in silence until the older doctor switched the flow of oxygen off and removed the mask. "We'll get that going again once you're in the chair." Sherlock managed a slight nod which was the most response they'd gotten since they had found him.

Sherlock's legs really weren't up to holding his own weight so it took the combined effort of Dr. Janssen and John to hoist the lanky man to his feet whilst the nurse pushed the chair in behind him. Just before they sat him down Sherlock leaned over towards John. "I want to go home," he whispered, a confession that made John's heart physically ache for the younger man. They deposited him in the chair and John rubbed his shoulder reassuringly.

"I know you do mate, I know."


	14. Breaking through the Walls

The journey up to Sherlock's room passed in a blur of white walls and laboured breathing for the two men. Dr. Janssen pushed Sherlock's chair hurriedly through the winding corridors and crowded wards. Sherlock was clasping onto John's jumper as if his life depended on it, causing the doctor to lean over slightly as he speed walked next to his wheel chair. He didn't have the heart to try and release Sherlock's iron like grip so instead he had no choice but to lean over awkwardly making it difficult to get enough air into his lungs. He didn't mind really, he was only mildly out of breath, and if it made Sherlock feel even slightly safer then it was worth it.

It was a weird thought, that clinging onto John might actually make him feel safer. This was Sherlock, the idiot that would fearlessly chase serial killers down alleyways without any backup nearby and without a weapon and would more often than not come out of it triumphant and unscathed. Of course there were occasions where he would be injured and John would have to literally chase him around the flat unto either John or Sherlock were too tired to continue. Usually it was Sherlock who gave up, as this usually occurred at the end of a case, and Sherlock may not have eaten or slept in about five days. Once John had caught him he would patch the childish man up, get him some food and a cup of tea and then berate him for the next half hour about his lack of ability to look after himself.

But it was all different now, different from all the other times that Sherlock had landed himself in hospital. This time it was not his fault, this time it was nobody's fault, he couldn't blame Sherlock's idiocy or some criminal, hell, he couldn't even blame Mycroft. This was all sheer misfortune, misfortune that Sherlock should never have to endure. Normally when Sherlock was in hospital he would sit there, getting angry at everyone and refusing to eat or sleep until eventually they would begrudgingly discharge him because being in hospital was doing him more harm than good. That was when the detective was in a courteous mood, a lot of the time he would get up and leave without telling a soul and nobody would ever notice him go. Even now he managed to leave the hospital unnoticed, but his escape attempt barely got him out the front door. This Sherlock was not the same as the Sherlock of a month ago. He was just as proud and stubborn, but he could no longer hide his weaknesses. The illness and the treatment had managed to battle him into submission and he was left broken and afraid.

It worried John that Sherlock's breathing was still laboured despite the fact that he had an oxygen mask pressed against his face in order to help him breathe. John sincerely hoped that it was simply the stress of the situation causing it and not a side effect of his treatment or, a possibility too terrible to even entertain for a moment, the leukaemia worsening. The detective's eyes kept on flickering shut before flying open again, as if realising he was drifting off. It was probably better for him to stay awake until they managed to get him back into his hospital gown and into bed. His head lolled forwards uncomfortably but he did nothing to try and right it, it was too much effort to fix it.

After what felt like an eternity they made it back up to Sherlock's room where a nurse seemed to appear out of nowhere. John, with some effort, managed to pry Sherlock's grip from his jumper and the utter look of betrayal Sherlock shot him tore cruelly at his heart. It took a lot of effort to simply step back and allow Dr. Janssen and the nurse to take over. They tried asking the detective questions, but he was either ignoring them or couldn't hear them. Instead of replying he just stared, unseeing, at the wall ahead of him. That blank look, it terrified John. Sherlock saw everything, he observed everything, but that look made it seem as if he was unaware of everything going on around him. To say it was unnerving would be an understatement.

He watched as the nurse and Dr. Janssen gently lifted him from the chair onto the bed, with a little coaxing he did change into the hospital gown again. He didn't make any fuss, he didn't insult anyone's intelligence, he just sat there staring straight ahead and pretending that there was nobody there. It was almost as if he had just completely given up, everything that made him Sherlock had just been sucked out of him and John could feel a nervousness bubbling at the bottom of his stomach. When Sherlock was fighting he would not allow the disease to defeat him. But if Sherlock had given up, then the only hope he had was in modern medicine and John did not like those odds at all. Once they had reattached all the wires to a passive and silent Sherlock they pulled the covers over him and reattached the oxygen mask. Almost instantly Sherlock rolled onto his side and drew his knees to his chest away from everyone in the room.

~0~

He knew that there was something happening, but his mind just didn't seem able to focus and he hated it. Each and every one of his bones ached and he could feel his stomach straining to rebel and it took a great deal of concentration to force it into submission. There was movement going on around him, or was he the one moving? It was impossible for him to tell. But John was there, he could tell that, so he grabbed hold of whatever he could and would not let go. John grounded him and let his mind catch up with what was going on around him. But pretty soon Sherlock could feel his friend trying to pull away from him so he grasped harder, hoping that the older man would not leave him, but he was too weak.

Sherlock looked up towards John, hoping he would understand that Sherlock did not want him to leave. He didn't seem to understand because he backed away from Sherlock's wheelchair. Then there were foreign hands on him and he did not like that but he was too exhausted to do anything about it. Since he couldn't stop them he resorted to what he always used to do when he was trapped, he would retreat to his mind palace. It needed sorting anyway, this disease had been wreaking havoc with it and nothing was in the right room anymore. It needed to be sorted before he lost track of where everything was.

~0~

The slight twitching of Sherlock's hands betrayed the fact that he had gone into his mind palace, his eyes were open but he didn't respond to anything that anybody said. He was hiding because he was afraid and his mind palace was the only place which seemed safe to him. John had tried coaxing out of his unresponsive state but each of his attempts had fallen flat and Mrs. Hudson and Molly had simply sat and watched concern for both the detective and the doctor on their faces.

After a while John simply couldn't cope with the silence anymore. He stood up suddenly causing both Mrs. Hudson and Molly to jump in their seats but Sherlock didn't so much as flinch. "I'm sorry; I just need to get out for a couple of hours. I think I'll go speak to Mycroft, find out if we can get him back to the flat any sooner. I don't think that being here is doing him any good mentally."

"On you go John," Molly said, giving him a sad and understanding smile. "We'll wait here until you get back."

"Thank you," he replied gratefully, shrugging his jacket onto his shoulders. He just needed to get out, have a distraction from what was happening even if it was just for a couple of hours. "If he comes out of whatever the hell this is before I get back call me," he said.

"Of course dear," Mrs. Hudson replied, giving his had an affectionate squeeze. He shot her a smile before hurrying out of the door.

~0~

"He could do with a break," Molly commented once John had walked out the door and Mrs. Hudson hummed in agreement.

"They're both as stubborn as each other, just in different ways." The older woman stood up and made her way over to the seat by Sherlock's bedside that John had been occupying.

"You need to let him in Sherlock," she said sadly, stroking his curls out of his eyes. His hair could do with a wash; she should mention that to the nurses. "He wants to help, we all do, but you won't let us and so we don't know how." There was no response, not that she had been expecting one. His hands simply kept on twitching as he sorted out the chaos that was his mind palace. Mrs. Hudson took hold of one of those twitching hands and clasped it in her own. It felt clammy but she held on, hoping that somewhere in the younger man's subconscious it would let him feel cared for.

~0~

Crowds of people bustled around him as he stood stock still in front of the supermarket shelves. The DI had managed to resist downing all of his whisky in on go and had managed to limit himself to two glasses, which had been the perfect amount to send him off to sleep for a couple of hours. He had the day off work, unless something major happened, so he'd decided to go shopping to look for things that Sherlock would be willing to eat and able to keep down. The list of things the self-proclaimed consulting detective was willing to eat under normal circumstances was worryingly short, so he was finding his task somewhat difficult. So far he had a couple of packets of digestives; he'd seen Sherlock singlehandedly destroy a whole pack because he wasn't thinking about it, and a few bottles of Lucozade. The DI was unsure if Sherlock liked the drink but the man did have somewhat of a sweet tooth and it did seem appropriate.

But that had lead Lestrade over to the stacks of newspapers and he managed to glimpse one of the headlines. Nobody was trying to drag Sherlock's name through the mud, they weren't trying to destroy his reputation; it was nothing like that. What had happened was someone had leaked Sherlock condition, in great detail, to the press. And there it was sitting innocently before him in black and white for the whole world to see. Sherlock would hate this if he knew; he'd go into one of his black moods and refuse to eat or sleep for days on end and only accept the occasional cup of tea. No matter what he claimed, he did actually care what people thought of him. He didn't want them to think he was human; he needed to seem invincible and smarter than any of them could ever hope to be. Up until then he'd managed to maintain that illusion, the world could not see him when he was craving a high and the manic behaviour he was prone to. All they saw was the genius detective running around the place apprehending criminals. But now someone had gone and ruined that illusion and it made him angrier than he could possibly imagine. If this information had been leaked by anyone on his team he didn't know if he'd manage to maintain ant semblance of self-control. The DI grabbed three different papers and stormed to the checkout, he needed to get to the hospital.

~0~

It was all Lestrade could do to stop himself from sprinting up to Sherlock's room; he had to force himself down to a fast walk. Ideally he'd wanted to speak to John, the doctor knew Sherlock's brother a lot better than he did and was much better equipped to deal with him than the DI and Lestrade was sure that Mycroft was the best one to deal with the situation. Unfortunately when Lestrade reached Sherlock's room he did not find the doctor but rather Mrs. Hudson and Molly. He took a moment to take the scene in as it was both sweet and heart-breaking at the same time.

Mrs. Hudson was sitting, carding her hand through errant curls and nattering away quietly whilst Sherlock lay passively on his side. He was either oblivious to her ministrations or was simply ignoring them. Molly was sat next to Mrs. Hudson whilst holding one of Sherlock's limp hands in her own. Normally Sherlock would shout at someone for merely thinking such a thing, but now it seemed that he did not care. Something had definitely happened whilst he had been gone; he just hoped he hadn't been given a worse prognosis.

Tentatively he knocked at the door causing the two women in the room to look up at him simultaneously, Sherlock's eyes were wide open but he didn't seem to even register Lestrade's presence. "Hey Sherlock," he said, coming in to the room but there was no reaction. Frowning, the older man looked up at the two women who shrugged their shoulders in confusion. He handed Molly the newspapers that he had picked up earlier. "Look what they've done," he said, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. Glancing at the headlines both Molly and Mrs. Hudson could feel themselves beginning to tremble with anger. Whoever was leaking the information on Sherlock's condition were going into great detail, he had absolutely no privacy.

"Who the hell is doing this?" Molly asked, with an uncharacteristic harshness to her voice. Mrs. Hudson rubbed her shoulder trying to reassure her but it did little to quell the fury that was welling up from within her.

"I don't know," Lestrade sighed, dropping into the only empty chair in the room and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'm going to find out though. Is John about? It'd be useful if we could get Sherlock's brother looking into this, but John seems to be the only person who can actually get that man to do anything."

"No," replied Mrs. Hudson. "John decided to have a bit of a break but he said that he would be back in a few hours."

"Oh good," Lestrade replied, leaning back into his seat slightly and breathing out a sigh of relief. "John really needed to take a bit of a break; he's going to end up making himself ill if he keeps on the way he's been going."

~0~

When it came to dinner time nobody had heard anything from John and Sherlock was still in his mind palace, hands twitching away and eyes darting about unseeing. Nobody worried about John, they knew he would be coming back; all he needed was some time to sort things out and decide what he was going to do. However, they did worry about Sherlock. It was very possible that he'd decided that he liked his mind palace more than he liked reality and chose to stay there. He might not be coming back. It just seemed like a very Sherlock thing to do.

Not a lot had happened in the few hours that they had all been sitting there. They had spoken a little but most of the time they sat in silence, Molly and Lestrade had taken paperwork that needed doing with them and Mrs. Hudson had taken a book with her. Dr. Janssen had been in a few times, his frown deepening each time as he saw Sherlock had not emerged from his mind. Dr. Harrison had also been in once to take some blood, she did not seem to care about Sherlock's unresponsive state. She simply walked in, took the blood, and left again without uttering a single word.

Molly noticed Mrs. Hudson's eyelids drooping and she smiled. "Do you want me to take you home?" she asked kindly. "I could do with an early night myself; I start at six tomorrow morning." The older woman looked sadly at Sherlock, all her maternal instincts screaming at her to stay there with him, but eventually reason told her she'd be no good to him if she was fast asleep.

"I think that's a good idea dear," she replied, hauling herself to her feet. She winced as her hip protested at the movement having stiffened up due to the lack of movement. Molly also stood up after gathering up all he bits of paper and putting them into a folder. As Mrs. Hudson said goodbye to her tenant, Molly turned to face Lestrade. "I can come back after I've taken her home if you want me to Greg." He shook his head.

"Thanks Molly but I'll be alright. I don't think he's going to be doing a lot and I have a lot of reports to catch up on. You've got an early start so don't worry about it."

"Ok, well I'll see you soon." The DI smiled in agreement. Quickly Molly said goodbye to Sherlock and the two women headed out of the room, closing the door behind them.

Once they had left the room Lestrade turned his attention back to the younger, almost catatonic, man lying on the bed. "You know," he started, leaning back in the chair and lifting his legs so that they were up on the bed, "If you told us what was wrong we might actually be able to help you." Lestrade searched Sherlock's face but there was no sign that Sherlock was listening or could even hear him. The DI carried on regardless, hoping that some of what he said was getting into the stubborn man's skull. "Believe it or not we actually want to help you, but we don't really know what's wrong, what it is that is making you act like this. We don't know if you're scared or angry or simply just bored. But if you told us we might understand and we might be able to help. Especially John, he's going half mad because he doesn't know how to help you. That doesn't mean he is going to leave though, he would never do that. He just wants to help you."

After his little speech Lestrade fell into silence. He felt a little stupid for talking to a man who obviously wasn't listening but it needed to be said. Anyway, if Sherlock was listening, he would probably just mock Lestrade once he came out of whatever the hell this was.

~0~

It was chaos in there, absolute bedlam, and he didn't like it. Obviously this was why he was having so many problems thinking with any clarity. The door to each and every room was wide open and a strong wind blew out of each room and into the corridor. Sheets of paper were blowing all over the place. Some ended up in rooms that they did not belong in and others ended up in the hallway, lining the floor. All of this chaos was giving him a nasty headache. Growling in frustration, Sherlock closed all the doors in his mind palace with a flick of both wrists. The wind instantly died down and everything was still. He could make out a low grumble which caused the walls to vibrate around him. From experience he knew that this was someone in the real world talking to him, but he was blocking them out. He didn't want to be out there at that moment, he didn't even want to think of out there existing. Out there he was sick and helpless, but in his mind palace he controlled everything. He was fully functional and his sickness didn't affect him. But it was affecting his mind palace and that terrified him. There hadn't been this sort of chaos since he'd gone through withdrawal.

He did feel a little bad; he knew that he was causing his friends worry. What he could not comprehend is why they were worried about him. Sure, he was sick, but they had other people they could turn to, they didn't need him so why were they constantly sitting with him? That was a puzzle that he had not been able to solve yet and it frustrated him. Perhaps if he got his mind palace more organised he would be able to come up with the correct solution.

He closed his eyes and locked all the doors, an old brass key appeared in his hand. Normally he would not lock the doors, what was the point when he was the only one who could get in anyway? However he had to make sure that no more papers went flying elsewhere. Cautiously he unlocked the room, took a deep breath, opened the door and darted inside as fast as he could. The papers were still flying around and Sherlock shook his head in distress at the state of the room. He headed for the window and shut it, and everything instantly died down. The windows in his mind palace weren't even supposed to open, so he didn't understand why they were. He would investigate that once he had sorted everything out, a task which could potentially take him up to a week.

~0~

"Sir," came a gentle voice from the doorway causing the DI to jerk awake. He shot a brief glimpse over to Sherlock, vainly hoping that he would be awake. Apparently he had not so much as moved since Lestrade had fallen asleep a good two hours ago. Finally his eyes came to rest on the source of the sound, Sally Donovan was making her way over to where he was sitting, she was in full uniform and water rolled off her high-visibility jacket.

"Everything alright?" he asked, pulling himself into an upright position and rubbing his eyes, willing his vision to become less blurry.

"Sorry to wake you. You weren't answering your phone so I thought you'd be here. There's been a murder and they need you at the crime scene, I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

Lestrade glanced hesitantly at his friend; the last two times that Sherlock had been left alone he had made a break for it. But then again it was highly unlikely that Sherlock would be going anywhere given his current state. "Let me just call John to find out where he is and if he can come back, I don't really want to leave Sherlock alone. I don't think anything is going to happen but…"

"Lestrade!" Sally interrupted. He instantly stopped talking and looked at he and she gave him a brief, sad smile. "That's why I came down myself, I'm not needed up there so I can stay with him until either you're done or someone else comes."

The DI frowned as he thought about it. Sherlock needed someone there with him, but he wasn't sure Sally was the best option. She wouldn't do anything to harm him, of course; she'd been worried about him ever since she'd heard the diagnosis. However they hadn't had the best history, her and Sherlock, and although Sherlock seemed to have no interest in what was going on around him he didn't know how he'd react if he came back to the world and found Sally Donovan sitting by his bedside; the woman who he had been fighting with ever since they had first met. However, he couldn't just not go to the crime scene. Finally he consented, nodding his head in confirmation and pulling himself up out of the chair. "If anything happens call me or John or even Molly, just someone he trusts. Don't take this the wrong way but he might not be happy to wake up to find you by his side." Sally smiled.

"I know; I don't hold it against him. I'm not exactly a fan of him but he doesn't deserve this. Nobody does." She handed Lestrade the keys to the police car. "The address is programmed into the GPS."

"Thanks, do you want me to grab you a coffee or tea from the machine?" Lestrade asked.

"No thanks, I'm good for now." The DI smiled before hurrying out of the door.

Now it was Sally's turn to sit in the chair placed near Sherlock's head. She felt unsure of herself; even though Sherlock didn't seem to be conscious enough to even know she was there she still didn't feel wanted. Unlike the others, she didn't feel she could touch him either, she didn't feel like she was privileged enough to run a comforting hand through his hair. Sherlock was very selective about those he let into his life and the list of those he was willing to share physical contact with was even shorter. Sally was well aware that she was not on either of these lists. She was just there to make sure he was alright and that he would not do anything foolish, so that is what she would do. Removing a book from her bag she propped her feet up on the bed and began to read, she was getting ready for a long night.

~0~

Sherlock stopped, his arm outstretched to pick up and errant sheet of paper when he felt something in the air around him change. It became less musky; whoever was with him in the real world must have left. About time too, they all had much better things to do with their time than babysit a useless invalid like him. There were people much more deserving of their care than him. The detective ignored the twinge of loneliness which pulled at his gut and focussed on sorting out his mind palace, he'd gone through ten rooms and sorted everything but at the last count he had 211 rooms in his mind palace and hadn't counted in a while.

Suddenly everything around him went blurry and the walls began to fade in and out. It was like he was being pulled out of his mind, he clung on desperately, this hadn't happened before and it terrified him. He'd accidentally allowed things in before but he had never been pulled out. He ran out of time to dwell upon it, suddenly he was back in the hospital, sitting on a bed, doubled over as his stomach once again rid itself of its contents. It felt like it was twisting itself impossible tight so as to ring itself dry.

Between the gasping breaths and violent heaves he felt a gentle hand on his back and kind words being whispered into his ear. Momentarily he was distracted; he'd thought he was alone, so he glanced sideways to see Sally there, a look of concern on her face. It was an expression he'd seen her wear many times but it had never been directed at him. She couldn't possibly care about him enough to be concerned about his wellbeing.

"Hey, you're okay, just breathe," she soothed, just as she would if there was a terrified child at a crime scene. Still panting for air he tried to shrug her gentle touch off of himself but she was insistent, she kept rubbing his back until the heaves subsided and he slumped back into his pillows exhausted. Nurses busied themselves, scurrying about the room, changing the sheets on his bed, giving him water to rinse his mouth, and just making sure he was clean in general. Donovan just sat there and watched as all of this went on, carefully monitoring Sherlock's blank and guarded expression. She couldn't help but worry about his distinctly gaunt look and pale complexion but there was nothing she could do about that. It was down to the people he trusted to fix that.

As the last of the nurses left the room she fired a text to Lestrade to let him know what had happened and asking him to let John know. She didn't have the doctor's number so that was the best she could do. "How're you feeling Sherlock?" she asked gently once they were left alone. The detective looked as if all he wanted was to be left alone but there was no way she was leaving him to his own devices.

"Fine," he replied stubbornly, turning away from her. He wanted to get into his mind palace again; he needed to keep sorting it out. His mind was feeling disorganised and he did not like that, he needed to fix it. For some reason though he was having trouble accessing it, there was something stopping him from getting in.

"Now I know that's a lie," Sally commented with a sigh. "You do know there is no problem admitting that you're not feeling great, especially when there is something so obviously wrong. Nobody is going to hold it against you, trust me." He probably didn't care what she had to say and he had probably heard this speech a million times but she felt she needed to say it too.

"Fine," he growled. "My head is killing me and my throat feels like it is on fire. Are you happy now?"

"Not happy per se but glad you've told me that, now we can do something about it. See, this is why you need to tell people these things."

Silently she left the room, leaving Sherlock to question just how the hell she had managed to get that information out of him; he'd not even admitted this much to John. A few minutes later she reappeared with a nurse who turned up his pain medication, which he was silently grateful for even if it meant he couldn't think as well as usual, and who gave him a cup full of ice cubes. They felt absolutely fantastic on his abused throat.

Once he'd gone through about four of the ice cubes he glanced across to Donovan who was once again sitting at his bedside reading her book. "Thanks," he muttered, half hoping she did not hear him.

"You're welcome," she replied smiling at him, he was sure that he saw pity in that smile but he forced himself to ignore it. "You know all we want to do is help, we don't want to mock you or anything. Especially John and Lestrade, they're really worried about you. If you need anything just let someone help you." He didn't reply, but she didn't really expect him to.

~0~

When he woke up it was dark outside, he hadn't even realised that he'd fallen asleep. The room was dimly lit by light shining in from the corridor and the light from John's mobile phone that illuminated his face. Sherlock felt relief wash over him, despite what Donovan said he'd still been worried that John wasn't coming back. "You look awful," he rasped causing the doctor to jump.

"You gave me a fright," he commented, putting down his phone and leaning forward. "Are you alright?" Sherlock opened his mouth to say he was fine, it was a default answer, but then he closed it again as Donovan's words from earlier seemed to replay themselves. The fact was he wasn't fine, he was scared and in pain. Even though he might not be ready to admit that, he may never be able to admit that, perhaps he should take her advice. Start small he told himself.

Taking a deep breath he looked at John. "I… um, I need…" John could see how much Sherlock was struggling with whatever it was he wanted to say.

"Whatever you need Sherlock," John coaxed. If Sherlock could admit he needed something then this would be a massive step forward.

"Could you help me to the bathroom?" Sherlock asked quickly, he looked worriedly up at his friend, as if he expected John to leave over such a simple request. The idiot thought he probably would. John had to suppress the laugh, the way Sherlock had been acting it was as if he was going to ask John to run away with him or something equally as drastic. Instead of laughing John smiled at his friend who looked oh so vulnerable and smiled. "Of course," he replied.


	15. Never by Half

The next day Sherlock seemed a lot better than he had for a few days. He had come back to himself slightly, acting more like the unimaginably proud idiot he was. He was rude to the nurses, which John was actually relieved about but he did still feel that he had to apologise on his friend's behalf and berate the man once they had gone. Sherlock had started looking through the case notes for Lestrade's current case as he was having a bit of trouble with it (and Sherlock had taken great pleasure in calling him an idiot for that very reason) but he had fallen asleep half way through the case file.

All in all, Sherlock was acting a whole lot better and John hoped it was because he now felt less alone and that he could actually trust people. He didn't look at all better though, his skin was just as pale and littered with bruises and he still looked just as fragile. While it wasn't a pleasant sight John had grown accustomed to seeing his friend in that state but looked forward to the day he saw Sherlock running through the streets once again with unmarred skin. Although he did not know that was going to happen, he decided to believe it until there was evidence which would suggest otherwise. This illness was not going to defeat Sherlock, John would not let it.

When Dr. Harrison had come in to sort out Sherlock's last chemo session for that round, she was acting differently. She tried to make casual conversation as she set up the drugs and the devices necessary to monitor Sherlock's condition, but her attempts fell flat. Sherlock was not having any of it, he refused to talk to her but his eyes followed her around the room, analysing her every move and detail. It obviously made the woman uncomfortable but John didn't tell Sherlock to be polite. It was obvious that the young doctor didn't want to be there, but it was obvious that someone had told her to get her act together. The likelihood was it was something to do with Mycroft but John didn't ask.

Sherlock was trying to be more open with John but it was obviously very taxing for him. He was not used to it so he was finding it very hard but John certainly did appreciate his friend's effort. Halfway through the chemo session Sherlock turned to John. The treatment was making him feel quite weak so he had to take a few deep breaths before being able to speak. "I'm thirsty." He said, his voice sounding very raspy. John put down his newspaper and smiled kindly.

"Do you want me to get you some water?" he asked, standing up and Sherlock shook his head.

"I want a proper cup of tea." He paused to get his breath back and John waited patiently, not letting the sadness he felt for his friend show on his face, Sherlock would misinterpret concern for pity. "Not the crap they sell here. There's a shop around the corner from the hospital." There was another pause and John glanced up at the monitor to make sure his friend's oxygen saturation level was still at an acceptable level. Thankfully it was. "Would you mind getting me some?"

"Not at all. Are you sure you'll be able to keep it down?" John replied, grabbing his coat from where it was hung on the back of the chair. Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes, this session was being particularly hard on him and he was still exhausted from the previous two.

"The nausea is still there but the anti-emetics are good."

"Do you want me to get the nurse to turn up your oxygen?" he asked before he left. Sherlock shook his head. "Okay, I'll be back in ten or fifteen minutes," John told him before hurrying out the door.

~0~

When he came back John quietly opened the door in case Sherlock had fallen asleep while he was out, and the sight that met him was a heart-wrenching one. Sherlock was sitting up in the bed, doubled over, with his head resting on his knees and his long fingers tangled into his curls. Small whimpers escaped his lips and it was all John could do to stop himself dropping the two cups of tea in his rush to get across to his friend. "Sherlock, what's wrong, are you in pain?" The whimpers stopped instantly and Sherlock remained stock still for a few moments before gingerly looking up.

"I'm fine, sorry about that," the detective replied, leaning back against the bed. John frowned; Sherlock's brow was creased in obvious pain. Why was he lying about it and why was he apologising? The stubborn man never apologised for anything. There was something seriously screwed up going on and he wanted to find out what.

"It's ok to be in pain you know," John said, sitting himself down and handing the tea to Sherlock. "I know what pain's like. I was shot you know." There was no reaction from Sherlock; he simply drew the tea in towards his body as if seeking warmth. "If you tell us when you're in pain we can help."

"Telling people doesn't help."

"What do you mean?" John asked, frowning one again.

"People don't care if I am in pain. It's safer if they just don't know."

The doctor just sat there, shocked. Sherlock had obviously endured so much in his lifetime and he'd had to go through it alone, or at least he had felt like he had to go through it alone. "Sherlock, I know you don't listen to me that often but it is important that you do now." The detective raised his bloodshot, yet still somehow enthralling, eyes to meet John's. "I don't know the details of what you have been through. I am sure that hiding your pain was a useful defensive mechanism then, but it is dangerous now. Nobody is going to use it against you. You may think that people don't care, but I care. You have more friends than you think you do and they all care as well. Being in pain is not something to be ashamed of. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded hesitantly at his friend, he was trying to understand this new, emotional side of John. He was well aware that John was much more emotional than him but he was not prone to outbursts of sentiment. He was also trying to get his head around why John cared for him so much. He did now believe that it wasn't all just an act and John did, in fact, care. John was many things but he was not manipulative. The closest he had ever gotten to that was exploiting the fact that Sherlock enjoyed copious volumes of tea while on a case and drugging one of the cups because, in his medical opinion, Sherlock was not getting anywhere close to the sleep he required.

"So, are you in pain?" John asked again gently. Sherlock did not answer for a while but John didn't rush him. He could only imagine how difficult everything was for him. "Just a bit of a headache," he replied. It looked much more than 'a bit of a headache' to John but he decided not to call his friend out on it. Instead he wordlessly got to his feet and closed the blinds and dimmed the lights slightly. When Sherlock had a migraine light would hurt him quite badly and he'd go lie in his room, with the lights off and curtain shut, with his head under his duvet. A migraine was the only thing that John had witnessed that could stop Sherlock from working.

"What else is there, I know when you're hiding something Sherlock?" The detective looked up at John and he squinted in the low light.

"Nothing else I don't think."

"Sherlock?" John replied in a half questioning, half warning tone of voice.

"Seriously," Sherlock snapped angrily. "I have pins and needles in my right hand but that's because I've been lying on it, but I didn't think you'd want every single small detail like that." His rant left him breathless and he screwed his eyes shut trying to stop the tendrils of pain from shooting agonisingly behind his eyes.

"Okay, okay, just breathe alright? I didn't mean to upset you."

"Not… upset," Sherlock replied between each gasp for air. John tried to put the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth but the detective batted it away angrily.

"Of course not," John sighed. "Anyway, drink your tea, it'll be getting cold."

Obediently Sherlock took a sip of the warm liquid. It still stung when it met his mouth but it did not burn, just the way he liked it. He sighed in pleasure despite his pounding head and relaxed into the mattress, closing his eyes. John was just glad that now Sherlock was calming down his oxygen saturation was beginning to creep back up. He took a sip of his own tea, which was a tad too hot for his liking, and went to find a nurse to turn Sherlock's pain medication up slightly. She didn't put it up as much as John would have liked, as Sherlock started moaning that it stopped him thinking properly.

~0~

Lestrade appeared an hour and a half after Sherlock's chemo session finished. That final session had been remarkably uneventful; the detective had only vomited once and had not tried to escape at all and he'd been fast asleep since the moment it finished. Lestrade entered the room as silently as he could, John saw him coming in and gestured that they'd talk outside. "How's he doing?" the DI asked softly once they were outside and the door was shut. He was not willing to risk waking Sherlock up when he so desperately needed the rest.

"Not too bad, he was in quite a lot of pain earlier but I think we've managed to control it. He didn't make it easy though." Lestrade chuckled.

"The idiot never makes anything easy though."

"I know," John said shaking his head despairingly. "Look, I know I keep asking you this but could you stay with him for a few hours? Sarah texted me, she wants to see me as soon as possible."

"Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, I think she's not happy about how little I'm in the surgery at the moment. I think this will be her telling me that she has to let me go."

Lestrade frowned at how casual John was about the whole matter. "You seem awfully calm for a man who is about to lose his job."

"Yeah," John muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I know. I just can't bring myself to worry about that when we could potentially lose Sherlock." Lestrade couldn't help but wince at the blunt way John said this and the doctor obviously noticed. "I'm sorry but it is true. I've been trying to convince myself it won't happen but it is still possible. Anyway, whenever I'm having financial trouble money seems to mysteriously appear in my account. It could be Sherlock's doing but it is more likely Mycroft's. I have no doubt that is what will happen this time."

"I don't know how you do it." Lestrade muttered disbelievingly.

"What do you mean?"

"Well before you came along all Mycroft did was kidnap me in his car whenever he damn well pleased; no matter if I was in the middle of something important. You seem to have managed to find his soft side."

"Well if it's any consolation he kidnaps me as well," John commented chuckling and Lestrade grinned.

"Really? I thought I was just special. How long did it take you to realise they were siblings?"

"Far too long. They may look completely different but they have the same power complex and ego. I still didn't believe it when Sherlock told me though."

"He actually told you? Sherlock flat out refused to tell me. As far as I was aware this madman, who had an unhealthy obsession with Sherlock, was kidnapping me about once a week and asking me how he was doing for a few months."

"You didn't know for several months?" John exclaimed, forgetting to keep his voice down. He couldn't help but grin at this new revelation.

"Nope. I probably still wouldn't know if Mycroft's assistant, whatever her name is, didn't get tired of their game and tell me who he was."

John smiled as did Lestrade, for a moment they had both been able to push away the worry of what their friend was going through and have a normal conversation. It felt nice. "Go, I'll watch Sherlock for you," Lestrade said, breaking the brief moment of silence.

"Cheers, I'll be back as soon as I can." John hurried off down the corridor and the DI went back into Sherlock's room and took the familiar space next to Sherlock's bed.

~0~

As Sherlock slowly grappled his way back to consciousness he became very aware of an uncomfortable pressure in his stomach and he emitted a loud groan. He really couldn't be bothered getting out of bed to use the toilet but making use of the urinal which lay innocently on the table next to him was completely out of the question. It would be utterly humiliating. Slowly he pulled himself upright and all of his joints protested at the effort. He was left with a throbbing ache all over his body which was significantly dulled by the pain killers being pumped into his system. For a moment he considered pulling out the IV, he did not like having to be on the painkillers as it made him feel weak and clouded his thinking, but soon decided he would leave it in until he used the toilet. The stand at least would give him something to lean on to get there.

A feeling of self-loathing washed over him. He hated feeling this pathetic and weak. Sherlock didn't understand how anyone could bear to look at him while he was this helpless. He was a grown man who could barely make it four metres to use the toilet without having some support to get him there. Never mind that, the simple task of sitting up unaided had left him feeling worn out and made him long to fall back into sleep's clutches. Slowly he swung his legs over the side of the bed and slipped his feet into the slippers the hospital had provided him. The laminate floor would be cold despite the fact he was wearing socks and without the grips on the bottom of the slippers he would probably go flying.

He pulled himself to his feet and leant heavily on the IV stand. His legs shook heavily and he was sure without the added support he would only be able to stand for a few seconds before his legs would give way. It was at that moment that Sherlock saw Lestrade fast asleep on the chair next to his bed with sheets of paper strewn all over his lap and scattered on the floor around his chair. For a few moments Sherlock stood frozen, not quite sure what to do next. He'd have to be very quiet so as not to wake the DI up. It was bad enough that he was this weak, but it would be infinitely worse if someone saw him fighting to stay upright.

Gradually he made his way across the room, wincing each time one of the wheels squeaked but Lestrade seemed too deeply asleep to notice. Halfway across the room dark spots began to dance across Sherlock's vision and he considered going back to the bed and using the urinal. It would be humiliating but not as bad as collapsing in the middle of the floor and wetting himself. He decided to carry on. He could always sit down and have a few minutes break when he got there. The way things were going he would need more than a few minutes break but he would deal with that when he came to it.

He shuffled his feet along the ground and inched towards the bathroom. Everything ached and he longed to collapse into his mattress but he needed to carry on. The tingling in his right arm was still there, it increased as he grasped the pole harder until it eventually felt as if someone was sticking hundreds of needles into his tender skin. It was concerning but it was lost in amongst the myriad of pain that assaulted his senses. His headache was coming with a vengeance and every single joint felt as if it was about to give in.

He closed the door behind him and sighed with relief as the sound of the lock resounded around the room. He had made it, he may have only had to walk across the room but it felt like he had been working a case on no food and no sleep for five days then rounded it off by being beaten to a pulp. Cautiously he made his way across to the toilet and considered sitting down before deciding against it. Sherlock was well aware it was a stupid decision; his legs were shaking like he was a new-born colt, but his pride would not allow him to sit. He had to prove he was strong enough to maintain even a small amount of his independence.

Holding himself up on the pole with his right hand and sorting himself out with his left Sherlock closed his eyes, partially with exhaustion and partially with relief, as the urine left his body. He hadn't realised how desperate he had been. One moment he was standing upright and the next he was on the ground. The detective could feel the warmth spreading around him but that was not his main concern. The sick detective's legs had given out beneath him and he had landed on his right arm. Gingerly he pulled it out from under himself and observed it in a detached way. It was bent at an odd angle where the bone had snapped on impact. There was nothing unusual there; he had broken his arms multiple times. What was usual was he couldn't feel anything. There was no pain, no discomfort, no nothing. If he couldn't see his arm he wouldn't even know it was there.

~0~

Lestrade was thrown back into consciousness by a loud crash which had him leaping up from his chair. For a moment he was disorientated and couldn't remember where he was but it quickly came back to him. A wave of panic washed over him, Sherlock's bed was empty. He'd already lost the man once; he couldn't have lost him again. The DI's eyes flickered across the room to look for some clue as to where Sherlock may have gone to. The IV rail was gone which was good, that meant Sherlock hadn't decided to rip all his wires and tubes out again. His eyes then fell upon the cupboard next to Sherlock's bed and he swung the door open and breathed a sigh of relief. All Sherlock's clothes were neatly folded and piled on top of each other inside. That meant Sherlock was still in the hospital, he would never go outside with his hospital gown on.

At that moment Lestrade heard movement from within the bathroom. "Sherlock?" he asked cautiously, not wanting to get his hopes up too much.

"Yes." Lestrade felt dizzy with relief. Of course Sherlock was in the bathroom; that should have been the first thing he checked. He could basically hear Sherlock calling him an idiot. But Sherlock's voice sounded a little odd, like he was trying to make himself sound normal.

"Are you alright in there?"

"Fine." Lestrade decided to give Sherlock a while to himself, he obviously did not want to be disturbed judging from his abrupt answer which was so like his normal self. He'd give him a few minutes before checking with him again. There was a niggling feeling at the back of his mind that there was something wrong.

~0~

Lestrade was shouting something, there always seemed to be someone shouting at him. He couldn't focus. He could hear himself replying but he felt out of control, like someone else had taken over his body. Why couldn't he feel his arm? It was right there. It was obviously broken. It should be throbbing, not completely numb. He tried to wiggle his fingers but there was nothing. No movement. What was going on? What if the feeling didn't come back? Would he still be able to work? Would he still be able to experiment? Mycroft would be over the moon, if he only had one arm he would be much easier for his older brother to control.

Shakily he lifted his good arm and stuck his thumb nail into the numb skin. He must be able to feel something. His arm was still connected to the rest of his body; there must still be some kind of nerve connection somewhere. When he felt nothing he pressed harder until blood welled up around the nail. There was no sensation whatsoever. Sherlock could feel himself panicking and he took a couple of deep breaths to try to calm himself. Something warm trickled down his face and he lifted his hand to his face. It came away red and glistening. Why was everything happening right that second? He didn't really care though, at that moment a nose bleed was quite literally the least of his worries.

Sherlock knew if John was there he would be going into a frenzy. He wished John was there. John always calmed him down. Instead he was sat on the floor of a hospital bathroom with a useless arm and a bleeding nose in a puddle of his own urine. Perhaps it was best that John was not there. He would be disgusted with him. A choked sob escaped from his throat unbidden as panic began to overtake him. Only moments later he heard Lestrade calling his name, begging him to answer but Sherlock could no longer function, not even on autopilot.

There was a few moments of blessed silence before the door was thrown open and a frantic looking Lestrade burst in followed by two nurses. No, no, no. Lestrade could not see him like this. He would realise how pathetic he was and then he would no longer let Sherlock take cases. If the cancer didn't kill him surely the boredom would.

Sherlock felt completely detached and could not follow what was happening to him or what was going on around him. He knew he was being moved but he couldn't tell where. His cheeks burned when he finally clicked what was going on. He had been sat on the toilet and the nurses had removed the gown and were now washing him with a cloth and Lestrade was holding him upright. Sherlock was well aware that without the older man's help he would just topple of sideways. Sherlock clung desperately onto the DI's shirt, terrified he would move away and watch him drop to the ground. He couldn't cope with yet more humiliation. Lestrade looked down at him with an unrecognisable look and Sherlock couldn't bear to look him in the eyes. He cast his gaze to the ground and clung more tightly to Lestrade. Tenderly the older man used his free hand to brush through Sherlock's curls hoping it would do something to comfort his sick friend.


	16. A Turn for the Worse

Lestrade sat back in the chair and tried to relax. It didn't work very well; he couldn't help but worry about Sherlock. There was just a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that there was something else wrong with him. Lestrade stayed alert, listening out for any indication of how Sherlock was. Five minutes went past and the DI heard nothing from the bathroom, all he could hear was the busy life of the hospital the other side of the wall. He stood up to go and knock on the door when there was a whimper from inside. It was quiet but it was definitely there and it pulled at the older man's heart. "Sherlock?" he shouted, running to the door and trying to open it. Unsurprisingly it was locked. He hammered on the door a few times in the vain hope that the detective would open it.

Reluctantly he left the room, honestly he didn't feel comfortable moving away from the door but he needed to get someone who could open it and help Sherlock if he'd gotten himself into trouble. Knowing Sherlock he'd probably gotten himself into a spectacular mess. "I need some help in here!" he shouted out the door. He could see some patients and visitors staring but he couldn't care less. A few seconds later a kind looking nurse who Lestrade had never met before appeared next to him and gently placed a soothing hand on his shoulder.

"Sir, I need you to calm down and tell me what is wrong." The DI took a deep breath in an attempt to not sound hysterical when he spoke. He still sounded panicked but it wasn't as bad as he feared.

"It's Sherlock, he's locked himself in the bathroom and now I think that there is something wrong." The nurse nodded to him and gestured for another nurse who hurried over. One of them pulled out a key and unlocked the bathroom and, without really meaning to, Lestrade pushed passed them and through the door. He would have to apologise to them later on but his focus at that moment was solely on Sherlock.

As soon as he laid eyes on the younger man his paternal side instantly took over. Sherlock was sat on the floor, blood pouring from his nose, with one arm lying limp at an unnatural angle next to him. The man looked utterly distraught and a sort of boy-like innocence was evident in his eyes. Lestrade felt his stomach drop within him leaving him slightly nauseous as he saw what this disease had done to the truly brilliant man. He dashed over to Sherlock and began running his hands through his curls reassuringly even before he had managed to crouch down next to him. His hair did not feel as soft as he expected it to. It was beginning to feel brittle, almost fragile, a reflection of the man it belonged to. Lestrade tried to push this thought aside and began to mutter reassurances to Sherlock even though he was almost 100% sure Sherlock was not actually listening to him. If he had been paying him any attention he would have been very quick to tell Lestrade to stop being so ridiculous and sentimental.

One of the nurses disappeared from the room while the other tried to focus on making Sherlock's nose stop bleeding. She pulled him into a more upright position and Lestrade helped a little, making sure that he never lost contact with Sherlock. He didn't know if the consulting detective noticed or wanted the contact but it was all that he could think to do. "Alright Mr Holmes, you need to hold this wad of tissues against your nose and pinch just above your nostrils. Do you think you can do that or do you need a hand?" As if acting on autopilot Sherlock took the tissues from the nurse without even glancing at her and did as she instructed. Automatically he tilted his head back so as to stem the flow of blood but he was quickly stopped by the nurse. "No, you don't want to do that. You need to lean forward or else all that blood is going to trickle down the back of your throat." There was nothing that indicated Sherlock had heard; he just remained perfectly still. After a few moments the nurse simply maneuvered him into the correct position, with his head tilted forwards.

At that moment the other nurse re-entered the room with a doctor whom Lestrade hadn't met before. The nurse was carrying a bucket of supplies and Lestrade knew exactly what they were for. There had been a pungent and distinct smell emanating from Sherlock that he had been trying to ignore. He didn't want to think about what it indicated. The poor man must feel totally degraded and humiliated given how proud he usually was. The last thing he needed was Lestrade drawing attention the fact that his bottom half was drenched in urine. Stubborn idiot. If he'd only asked for help he wouldn't have got himself into this mess.

The DI felt the doctor look him up and down before the other nurse started speaking. "We think he's broken his right arm," she said. "We thought it'd be best if you had a look at it before we started jostling him about."

"Certainly looks broken," she replied before crouching down next to a very fragile looking Sherlock. "Hello Mr. Holmes, I'm Dr. Daniels. I'm just going to have a look at your arm to see how bad a break it is but it will hurt. Is that ok with you?" As Lestrade anticipated there was no response but she seemed unperturbed by it. "OK, I'm just going to have a feel but if it gets too uncomfortable let me know and I'll stop. Just give me a nod." If Sherlock was like he normally was Dr. Daniels would have probably lost her head simply for speaking to the detective in that manner. Now he didn't even respond.

She picked up his arm and began to feel it, keeping a close eye on Sherlock in case he gave her a subtle nod. "Are you family?" she asked Lestrade who had abandoned running a hand through Sherlock's hair in favour of keeping a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Yes," he replied instantly and without thinking. He pointedly ignored the two critical looks he received off of the two nurses.

"Well in that case you can stay if you want but you might find it easier if you wait outside until we have gotten him sorted."

"I'm staying."

"Very well," she replied with a nod and a small smile before turning her full attention back to her patient.

"It feels like it is a clean break, it should be easy enough to get back into the right position. We'll need to get it x-rayed though of course." Her hands carried on with their ministrations and she began to frown causing butterflies to flutter about in Lestrade's stomach. "Can you feel this Mr. Holmes?" she asked pressing slightly harder into his arm with her thumbs. The DI saw Sherlock's eyes move so he could see her but apart from that there was no response, not even a glimmer of pain passed over his features. Lestrade desperately hoped that his conclusions were wrong but he doubted they were. Sherlock Holmes had lost all sensation, and therefore movement, in his right arm.

Dr. Daniels laid his arm gently across his middle and moved so that she could see Sherlock was looking straight at her. "Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes," she called. "I really need you to focus here. This is important. Did you feel anything in your arm a moment ago?" There was a few seconds where Sherlock was just staring at her in a detached manner then he shook his head. It was a miniscule movement but it was definitely there. "Ok, well as you can probably tell this is not a good sign. I am not fully informed of your case so I will pass this information onto your oncologist who will want a blood test and will want to perform another lumbar puncture. But I will leave you with these two nurses for now and they'll get you looking respectable and I will go and book you into the x-ray machine." At this point she turned to look at the nurses. "So long as you're careful his arm will be fine. It is a clean break and he can't feel anything so it isn't going to do any damage. Just be careful if you need to manipulate it at all to get him dressed. He won't be able to tell if there's any further damage being caused because it doesn't hurt. Now, I will see you all very soon."

Lestrade had liked Dr. Daniels. She seemed very professional and very good at her job. The only aspect he didn't like was the fact that she spoke as if Sherlock was not there just before she left. But there was no time to dwell on that now; the nurses were beginning to hoist Sherlock into a standing position and he was getting in the way.

Sherlock's legs were positively shaking with the strain as he finally made it onto his feet and the nurses obviously noticed this as he was quickly sat down on the closed toilet seat. The nurses were quick and efficient, getting Sherlock undressed and beginning to clean him up. They told him exactly what they were doing each step of the way and Sherlock's eyes were darting frantically around the room as if he were trying, and failing, to follow what was going on around him. Lestrade stood next to the fragile man and pointedly looked away from what the nurses were doing; he wouldn't cause his friend any more indignity than was absolutely necessary. His hand found its way back to Sherlock's delicate curls and even through that gentle touch he could feel tremors rippling Sherlock's body, threatening to shake him apart completely. After a few seconds he felt the younger man lean against him and the DI suspected that he was now the only reason Sherlock was remaining upright. There was a small tug at his shirt and, despite how horrific the situation was, Lestrade smiled because somehow it meant a lot that Sherlock trusted him enough to cling to him.

~0~

"I don't know how you do it John," Sarah said from across the desk. She looked like she really wanted to shout at John but there was something holding her back.

"What do you mean?" John asked, itching to get back to see Sherlock. The fact Sherlock had pins and needles earlier was niggling in the back of his mind and he wasn't entirely sure why.

"Well I called you here to fire you; I am going to be honest with you." At this statement John felt his heart drop. Of course he should have expected that, the number of times he'd just left the surgery because of Sherlock was much higher than he cared to think of. But he did need a job; he didn't want to be indebted to Mycroft who would undoubtedly start paying his bills as soon as he could not afford to do so. He didn't want the elder Holmes to have any power over him.

"I have been lenient with you I feel. I know Sherlock well enough to know if you don't go and help him when he demands it he could well go and get himself killed," Sarah continued. "I didn't feel I could tell you that you couldn't go and save your friend's life. However quite recently the number of shifts you have been missing has become ridiculous and we are struggling to give all our patients appointments. But ten minutes before you arrived I received a phone call from the CEO of the NHS." At this John's head snapped up in surprise. He could see roughly where this was going and it had Mycroft's name written all over it. "I was informed that I was to continue paying you but I am to give you time off when and if you need it. We are going to be getting extra money to take on another doctor to cover any shifts you miss. You must have some friends in pretty high places."

"Yeah…" John replied distractedly. He thought Mycroft would try to help out but not to this extent, although if he had learned anything in the past few years it was to not underestimate a Holmes. "Something like that."

Sarah opened her mouth to say something else when John's phone started ringing and he smiled apologetically at her before looking at the caller ID and answering. "Greg," he said, standing up and leaving Sarah's office. Something had obviously happened if the DI was phoning him and he didn't want Sarah listening in on the conversation.

"John, how quickly can you get back here?"

"Why?" he asked, hearing the fear in his own voice.

"The short version is he's lost feeling in his right arm, he's got no movement either, and it's broken. He is refusing to let anyone close enough to treat him or do any tests."

"I'm at the surgery but I'll cut this meeting short. I'll get a taxi, hopefully if the roads are clear I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"Ok," Lestrade replied and John could hear the relief that punctuated his voice. It must be bad if Lestrade didn't think he could handle the situation.

"Do you have Mycroft's number?"

"No, why?"

"I'll give him a ring on my way across then. The likelihood is he knows all about this already but if Sherlock cannot be persuaded to accept treatment then, as much as it pains me to say, we'll need Mycroft. He'll be able to get Sherlock declared to be mentally unfit to make these decisions much faster than if we go through normal channels."  
"That just feels wrong," Lestrade replied and John did agree. He didn't want to force Sherlock into anything but he was not losing Sherlock simply because he freaked out and then was too stubborn to change his mind.

"I know; I just don't know what else to do."

John just hung up on Lestrade, he knew given the circumstances the older man wouldn't mind. He stuck his head around the door to see a scowling Sarah from behind her desk. "I'm sorry," he started even though he couldn't quite bring himself to mean those words. "Sherlock's taken a turn for the worse. I need to go." She nodded her head and sighed resignedly.

"Give me a text when you think you're going to be able to start taking shifts again." He nodded his head before hurrying from the surgery.

~0~

"I'm sorry; Mr. Homes is in a meeting right now." John groaned aloud which earned him a look from the taxi driver which he ignored. This secretary must be new as she obviously did not know who he was.

"I am Dr. John Watson," he clarified, hoping that would spark something in the young woman's memory. "I need to talk to Mr Mycroft Holmes; it is regarding his brother Sherlock Holmes."

"Sorry Dr. Watson but he is in an important meeting right now. The best I can do for you is to give him a message now and then he will phone you back later."

"Fine," John growled. "Tell him his brother is refusing treatment and that we may require his assistance. Oh, and don't hang up on me. He's going to want to speak to me so there's no point in hanging up."

John heard a bit of muttering coming from the other end of the phone. He had no patience to deal with a stroppy secretary. As he expected a few minutes later he was met by the sound of Mycroft's voice. "This better be as important as it sounds John." Mycroft obviously wasn't having an easy day either.

"I only know what Lestrade has told me. Sherlock's lost the use of one of his arms and is now refusing any treatment. We might need you to hurry the process if it comes to declaring him unfit to make these decisions." There was a brief moment of silence before Mycroft replied. His voice was sickeningly calm as usual but the moment of hesitation spoke more of his concern for his brother than anything he could have said.

"What treatments and tests are they trying to do?"

"I'm not sure; I've only been told what Lestrade said. The likelihood is they'll want a blood test and a lumbar puncture but apart from that I'm not sure. I'm not an oncologist. I thought you'd probably know all of this by now."

"Yes, my surveillance team does seem to have let me down somewhat. I will be dealing with them later."

"Anyway, I'm in a taxi heading to the hospital now. If you could come across it may prove to be useful."

"I'm on my way now even though I am sure my brother will be less than pleased to see me. I'll be around an hour and a half. I do expect to be kept appraised of the situation. Goodbye John." The line was silent before he could even reply.

~0~

Lestrade sighed in relief; it was far more reassuring to know John was on his way than it should have been. He didn't even have a vague idea of how to deal with this one. Sherlock was always difficult and the DI had learned to deal with that most of the time but this was a combination of Sherlock's fear and stubbornness and he was not used to Sherlock being afraid. It wasn't anything he'd ever had to deal with before.

~0~

Dr. Daniels had taken Sherlock down for an x-ray, set his arm and casted it without protest from him. In fact he had been completely silent through the whole process, ignoring everything that was going on around him. He did as he was told but his face remained expressionless, it was as if his body was following orders but his mind wasn't consciously processing them. It was eerie and unnerving. As soon as he had been put back in his bed he came back to himself and he definitely was not happy.

Dr. Daniels had disappeared and had been replaced by both Dr. Harrison and Dr. Janssen. "Hello Mr. Holmes, what have I told you about going off on more adventures?" Sherlock glared at him as if he were trying to set the man on fire by only using the power of his mind. It was unusual as Sherlock had never seemed to mind the man before. He seemed surprised by the look as well but he didn't let it faze him, instead he simply got down to business. "Alright then Mr. Holmes. I'm just going to take another blood sample so that we can see what how well the chemotherapy has worked. The fact that you have suddenly taken this turn for the worse would indicate that it has not been as successful as we would have hoped. We'll need to take blood samples a couple of times a day for the next three days before we know for sure but this test should give us an indication. It may simply just be a case of giving you the same treatment a few more times but we may need to rethink your treatment plan completely. Hopefully this test will tell us what we need to know."

Dr. Janssen picked up the blood sampling kit and approached Sherlock and this was when he began to kick off. "Don't you dare come near me with that!" Sherlock had meant to growl at the man, try and intimidate him, but it came out as more of a rasp.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed and both Dr. Janssen and Dr. Harrison looked at the mad genius in puzzlement.

"Why won't you let me do this test?" Dr. Janssen asked kindly.

"Can't you see it is useless? I'm not going to survive this, not now. There's more leukaemia cells in my cerebrospinal fluid than you anticipated. Stop trying to enhance and prolong my suffering and me go home and die in peace." By the end Sherlock was gasping for air but he wasn't letting either of the doctors come near enough to put the oxygen mask on. Lestrade couldn't listen to Sherlock anymore.

"I'm calling John," he stated, before hurrying out of the room.

Dr. Harrison tried to approach Sherlock with a kind look on her face but she was stopped in her tracks as Sherlock let out a loud snarl. "I know what you've been doing," he said quietly yet still threateningly. "And once I have figured out how and why I will decide what to do. If I am feeling kind I will deal with you myself. Otherwise I will allow my brother to deal with you as he pleases. Until then I am not letting you touch me, now leave!" The last part was shouted; it sent the oncologist scurrying away, Sherlock breathing heavily and a very confused and concerned Dr. Janssen. The older man pulled up a seat close to Sherlock and Sherlock watched him warily.

"Will you let me put the oxygen mask on you?" he asked Sherlock cautiously.

"No," detective replied, still breathing heavily.

"Your O2 levels are way down…"

"No," Sherlock interrupted.

"Ok," Dr. Janssen said slowly. He'd not seen this side to Sherlock before and he was not too sure how to deal with it. "Would you like to tell me what that was all about then?"

"No."

"Because if someone has been abusing you in any way in this hospital it is important…" Dr. Janssen didn't manage to finish his sentence because he was interrupted by a loud groan from Sherlock.

"No," he said despairingly. It's not like that at all. Why is everyone so slow? I'm on morphine and I can still think significantly faster than you. Just leave, I can practically hear you trying to think and it is annoying!" Sherlock closed his eyes and began to breathe shallowly and rapidly as his knuckles turned white as he gripped the mattress to try and get through the sudden onslaught of pain. Dr. Janssen stood to leave.

"I'll leave if you want Mr. Holmes," Dr. Janssen said. His voice was kind but through it Sherlock could tell he wasn't happy with him. "Just try to stay calm. If your O2 levels drop much more you will pass out and then you won't be able to stop me putting the oxygen mask on you." Sherlock glared at the man as he left the room.

~0~

When the taxi pulled up at the hospital John practically threw cash at the driver before jumping out of the cab and yelling that he could keep the change over his shoulder. He was pretty sure he'd just tipped the man £20 but at that moment he really didn't care. It was a battle not to run through the corridors of the hospital, instead he did a fast walk until he reached Sherlock's room. He saw Dr. Janssen standing outside and he glanced inside the room to see Lestrade sitting by his friend's bed and Sherlock was making a point of ignoring the DI.

"Hello Dr. Watson," Dr. Janssen said, holding out his right hand which John shook firmly.

"Dr. Janssen," John greeted. "I hear Sherlock is refusing treatment."

"Yes, he got very angry when both Dr. Harrison and I tried to treat him; he started shouting at Dr. Harrison. He was saying that he knew what she was doing and once he knew why he would deal with her."

"I'm not too sure what that was about. Sherlock doesn't trust her but I didn't think it was anything more than that. If he doesn't want to tell you we'll just have to wait and see what happens I'm afraid." The older doctor nodded in understanding and carried on.

"I wanted to take a blood sample and Dr. Harrison wanted to do a lumbar puncture but he refused those tests. He even refused the oxygen. Once Dr. Harrison had left I asked him what was going on, I was worried that his outburst was indicative of some form of abuse coming from Dr. Harrison. He then told me to leave because my attempts at thinking were annoying."

John sighed in exasperation. "Yeah, he says things like that quite frequently really."

"I gathered as much."

"Don't take it personally. It's just the way he is. He does actually like you. Give me a quick fill in, what actually happened in the first place?"

"He hasn't actually told us anything. Apparently he got up by himself for the toilet while your other friend was asleep. He was woken up by a loud crash, but Mr. Holmes said he was fine. He waited another few minutes but he heard groaning coming from inside the bathroom. He went to get a nurse to open the door. By the looks of it his legs seem to have given out while he was urinating and his right arm is completely paralysed from the shoulder down. He landed on it and it broke at the elbow joint. Dr. Daniels ordered an x-ray which showed that it was a clean break so she set and cast it. We think that the arm paralysis has been caused by a much more rapid increase of the leukaemia cells in his cerebrospinal fluid than we anticipated. If that is the case we are going to need to start the chemotherapy treatment there tomorrow. We can't risk waiting." John nodded in understanding.

"I'll go and talk to him, see if I can't persuade him to accept the treatment. If he doesn't his brother is on his way. He'll get the right paperwork through if Sherlock won't accept it." Dr. Janssen decided it would probably be better to just not ask about what John meant.

John opened the door into Sherlock's room and stepped through followed by Dr. Janssen. Sherlock looked up and seemed surprised, he always surprised when John appeared and that was more than slightly concerning. "Hello Sherlock, Dr. Janssen is here to take a blood sample."

"I've already told him no," he replied, rolling over to face the other way petulantly. If Sherlock was in one of those moods things could go very badly indeed.

"Where's the kit for taking the blood sample?" he asked Dr. Janssen.

"You know you're not allowed to do any medical treatment in this hospital Dr. Watson, not even taking blood," he said but still pointed towards the kit on the table.

"I know," John replied, walking over and grabbing the kit. He made his way to the side Sherlock was facing and Lestrade quickly vacated his seat. John was obviously not happy and neither was Sherlock. When the two of them were both in bad moods the results had the potential to be explosive and Lestrade did not want to get in the way of that.

John took Lestrade's seat and took a deep breath to calm down before starting. "Sherlock, we need that blood sample, and by the looks of things you could do with a bit of oxygen." The detective shook his head. That simple movement made him feel nauseous and he knew he was weakening quickly.

"I don't want treatment." John pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath before looking up again. Sherlock was definitely not going to make this easy. If he couldn't persuade him to take the treatment by the time Mycroft arrived he would have to make Sherlock take it. He was not going to let Sherlock sit back and die, even if it meant his best friend would end up hating him.

"Would you mind giving us a couple of minutes?" John asked Lestrade and Dr. Janssen.

"Not at all," they replied in unison. John waited until the door clicked shut before he said anything.

"Why won't you accept treatment?"

"Because I don't want it." The younger man screwed up his eyes and his whole body tensed up as another wave of pain washed over him and John felt his heart ache for his friend.

"But what is the reason? You always have a reason and you simply not wanting it does not constitute a good reason. So tell me what it is."

"Fine. The treatment obviously isn't working, if it was I would still have the use of my right arm. All that is going to happen is the treatment is that it may prolong my life by a few weeks, a month at most. But I will still die and I will have the side effects of all my medications to deal with on top of my symptoms and it will not be pretty. I would like to die with a little of my dignity still intact." Sherlock's voice was quiet, John was struggling to hear it, and he didn't know how much longer he would be able to keep going without a nap. He really hated how weak and pathetic his body had become. This was precisely the reason he wanted his treatment to stop and he desperately wanted John to understand.

"You don't know that the treatment isn't working. They haven't started the chemo in your spine yet which is why you can't use your arm. There is a good chance when the treatment does start you will be able to move it again. The only way to find out for sure if the treatment isn't working is by letting them take a blood sample."

"No. I'm tired of being prodded with needles and having what is essentially poison pumped into my body and everyone thinking it is okay because it is medicine." John took a moment to collect himself. He knew what he was about to say could hit Sherlock hard and he needed to prepare himself for that.

"So you're going to let me sit here and watch my best friend die simply because you don't want a blood test?"

As John expected this statement left Sherlock slightly agape and, if the circumstances had been different, John would have laughed. It was such an unusual expression to see on him. When he managed to speak again it was not quite what John expected. "I'm your best friend?" Sherlock asked slowly and cautiously. He looked absolutely terrified, afraid that John had played some cruel joke on him. It took John a moment to reply because he was stunned that Sherlock even had to ask that question.

"Yes, of course you are," John replied. He'd thought that had been obvious but this was Sherlock, when it came to emotions Sherlock needed to be blatantly told or he just would not get it. There was a brief silence which Sherlock soon broke.

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why? Why am I your best friend?" That certainly was a surprise. It was quite a good question though. Sherlock was not an easy man to get on with and most people hated him. But John didn't. He saw past the brusqueness and the insults. It was still hard to see what was underneath it all but John knew that Sherlock cared for him in some capacity and he definitely cared for Sherlock.

"Well, you're brilliant. I mean… I don't really know how to put this into words." Sherlock was looking at John worriedly and he knew he would have to come up with something or else the idiot of a man would assume that he was lying about it all. Sherlock needed everything to be quantifiable or else he just couldn't be sure of it. "I've never met anyone like you. We have a laugh together and underneath it all I think you're a good man. And you hate the idea of a mundane life just as much as I do." There was so much more to it than that but John just didn't know how to say it. He hoped it was enough. John was not good at talking about his emotions like this and with most people he wouldn't have to, they would just know from his actions. But Sherlock needed it explained and if that is what he needed then John was more than happy to oblige.

"Why are you still here then? I'm definitely not brilliant right now and I'm not exactly a good person to laugh with and my life feels boring and repetitive. All I do is sleep, so why are you still here?" Sherlock certainly did ask difficult questions.

"You're my best friend as I've already said. If your best friend gets sick or injured you don't abandon them, you stick with them and help them through it and it's not a burden because they are your best friend. And if this friend is being an idiot and refusing potentially lifesaving treatment you tell them that they're being an idiot because you don't want to lose them. If I were the one sick and lying in that bed would you just leave?"

"No but…"

"It's exactly the same thing this way around," John interrupted. "I'm not leaving because I care about you. So please, have the treatment. Don't make me watch you die. Please."

Sherlock looked quite distressed and John felt a little bad for doing that to him. It was the only way to make sure he recovered though. The detective was quiet for so long that John thought that perhaps he had fallen asleep with his eyes open but eventually he did speak.

"I just want it to stop," he whispered in a very un-Sherlock like manner. "I just want to go home and I want it to stop."

"I know," John replied, gently brushing his hand through Sherlock's fragile curls. "But please, don't let me watch you die, at least not without a fight. I want you around for as long as possible and if the treatment ends up not working I want to be able to tell people how proud I am of you for fighting for as long as you could and that you didn't give up." There were a few minutes of silence where Sherlock just lay there while John stroked his hair comfortingly. Eventually he gave a small nod and John smiled. "Thank you."


	17. Brotherly Concern

Both Sherlock and John remained silent for a few minutes, neither of them wanting to break the companionable silence which they found themselves in. Instead of speaking they pondered events, comfortable to sit quietly in each other's presence.

From the moment that Sherlock had been admitted to hospital John had not known how he was supposed to act around the detective. He didn't know if he should act normally, ignoring Sherlock's obvious frailty as much as possible, or if he should treat Sherlock as he would treat a normal person if they were sick, or try for something in between. It was hard to know with Sherlock. Even under normal conditions, anything could send him spiralling into a silent depression which could engulf the whole room if he wasn't preoccupied with a case. Instead of deciding how to behave, John realised that he'd removed himself slightly from Sherlock's treatment. He hadn't been there for his friend when he should have been and Sherlock took this as John not caring. As far as the detective was concerned, John was like some kind of oracle when it came to understanding human behaviour. When he wasn't there the detective had to come to his own conclusions, based on his own experience, to explain why the doctor was conspicuously absent and withdrawn. Unfortunately Sherlock had come to the wrong conclusion and John hadn't been there to correct him. For this reason John couldn't help but feel more than slightly responsible for the fact Sherlock had refused treatment, and couldn't help but feel a little guilty. Hopefully he had rectified his wrongs and things would go more smoothly from thereon out.

Sherlock had been convinced that John hadn't wanted to be around him, that the doctor was disgusted with his weakness and with how pathetic he had become. John had been acting weirdly ever since he had been admitted to the hospital. Sherlock had expected him to go all mother hen on him, in his own brusque manner of course, but he hadn't. There'd been times that John had been acting protectively but he'd presumed it had been in his mind or that John had been putting it on. He didn't know how he thought John should be acting, just that he should have been acting differently.

It had been a surprise to him that when he refused treatment it had resulted in the older man to essentially storm into the hospital room to demand that he change his mind. At first the detective had presumed that John was merely acting angry out of a sense of duty. It was only when he detected true fear in his voice and sorrow in his eyes that he began to understand that John actually cared for him. It felt weird knowing that John cared for him, not many people did, and he didn't think that anyone as brilliant as John Watson would have the patience to put up with him. John could befriend anyone he met, so why did he put up with his stubbornness and eccentricities when he could easily become best friends with someone much easier to put up with? He'd asked John why but he still didn't understand. He decided to go against his usual tendencies and not dwell on it. At that moment he was more than happy to enjoy the fact that he knew that John was his friend.

Sherlock wasn't sure how long the two of them sat in silence, it hadn't felt like that long but it was very possible that he'd drifted off. John was the one to break the quiet tranquillity of the room and it felt like some sort of spell had been broken. In the quiet calm of the room, for a few minutes, Sherlock had felt like he wasn't some kind of sick creature in need of constant supervision and protection. Instead he simply felt like he was enjoying the company of a friend and he had relished in the sensation.

"I'm going to have to go and let them know that you'll have the treatment," John said, standing up and pushing the chair back with a shrill squeak which made Sherlock wince. Sherlock looked up at his friend and saw that he bore an expression of immeasurable pride, Sherlock smiled but it seemed to come out as more of a grimace, because John's expression instantly morphed into one of sympathy. "This isn't going to be fun or easy but you've made the right decision Sherlock." Sherlock nodded, he didn't want to tell John that he still had doubts. He believed John that he was his friend but he wasn't so convinced that fighting to survive would be worth it in the long run. He still didn't think there was a chance of him living through the illness, but he didn't want to tell John. The doctor hadn't looked relaxed since the whole thing started and he didn't want to rid the man of hope. Perhaps he could keep going a little longer to see what happened.

"Do you want me to get the doctors to come back in an hour or so? Just to let you get some rest. You look knackered."

Sherlock nodded, unable to suppress the yawn which seemed to come from nowhere. He was suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness and was asleep before John had even managed to close the door quietly behind him.

~0~

In Sherlock's room John had felt completely detached from the real world. Before it had just been him and Sherlock and he hadn't had to worry about anything or anyone else. The corridor seemed positively thriving with activity and noise compared to the odd seclusion he'd just emerged from. Lestrade sat in a chair opposite the door sipping on a cup of coffee, while Dr. Janssen sat a couple of seats along from him busily filling in a chart. John was surprised to see him still sitting there waiting but was happy that he seemed have taken such an interest in Sherlock.

Lestrade looked up as John walked towards him and looked up at the doctor hopefully. John was glad Sherlock had agreed to the treatment, he wasn't sure if he'd have the heart to tell Lestrade if he had continued to stubbornly refuse. Of course they'd get Mycroft to make sure he got the treatment, but neither of them wanted to have to take things so far.

John nodded and then smiled when he saw the huge grin that broke out on Lestrade's face he couldn't help but grin back; it looked as if he had to physically hold himself back from jumping out of the chair with excitement. John felt exactly the same way as had been the first good news since the whole business started. "That's fantastic news John!" Lestrade proclaimed enthusiastically, causing Dr. Janssen to look up sharply; he hadn't noticed John leaving the room. "I knew you could get him to agree."

"He's allowing the treatment?" Dr. Janssen asked as he stood seamlessly from his seat and John nodded in confirmation.

"I know you'll need to get on with running blood tests and everything but can you leave him for an hour or so? He's tired."

The concept of Sherlock being tired was an alien one to both John and Lestrade. They were used to the young man carrying on for days on end with no form of respite or sustenance. The amount of time that Sherlock was spending asleep was understandable, but was a testament to how sick the man truly was. "Of course," Dr. Janssen replied. I'll go and discuss treatments with Dr. Harrison and then I'll be back down in about an hour.

For the next hour John and Lestrade sat in the seats outside of Sherlock's room. It felt nice for the both of them to just sit there and chat over coffee. It seemed like something normal, which was reassuring in the strange and unpredictable world that they found themselves thrown into. The time seemed to fly by. Their conversation, unsurprisingly, revolved around Sherlock. It started off discussing Sherlock's disease and how he was coping and it gradually moved on and ended in Lestrade telling stories about Sherlock before John had come onto the scene, a subject that John didn't know all that much about. "He used to be a lot worse before he met you John, he had no concept of what was acceptable and what was not. I know he still finds it hard but he's a hell of a lot better than he was. You've really helped him John." John wasn't sure how to respond to that, nothing seemed appropriate but luckily for him at that point they were interrupted by the arrival of Sherlock's two doctors.

"Is Sherlock still sleeping?" Dr. Janssen asked without greeting yet he somehow still managed to come across as friendly. Dr. Harrison, on the other hand, hovered agitatedly in the background obviously wanting to get on with her job and leave as soon as possible.

"Haven't heard a thing from him. I'm sure he'll have recovered a bit by now though, you should be alright to wake him." Dr. Janssen nodded and gestured for the oncologist to enter the room before him. As they all filed into the room they noticed that Sherlock was still fast asleep. The pain and worry that seemed to mar his face was smoothed out, he looked almost like his normal self apart from the faint purple smudges scattered across his features. His casted arm lay uselessly on the top of the sheet. The detective's breathing was still slightly laboured but it had massively improved since earlier. John didn't want to have to wake the man up and bring him back into the living nightmare he was being forced to endure, but he knew that it had to be done. While he was dwelling on all of this Lestrade seemed to decide to take the initiative.

"Sherlock, rise and shine," he called with a certain gentleness he reserved only for the consulting detective. Sherlock groaned and began to shift around. His eyes were pried open and he gazed blearily around the room, surprised at the number of people surrounding his bed. He went to push himself up in the bed with both of his arms and growled in frustration when one of them refused to respond. For a second he forgotten about the latest damage wreaked on his already ravaged body. Both John and the DI realised what had happened and it sent a pang of sadness surging through both of their bodies but they both thought that it would be best to just pretend that nothing had happened. "I actually quite like this," Lestrade continued amicably. "You've woken me up in the middle of the night countless times; it's nice to finally be able to get you back."

It's not the middle of the night," Sherlock mumbled while focussing on trying to haul himself up into a sitting position with one arm. Nobody helped him; they all knew it was important for him to retain some sense of independence wherever and whenever possible.

"I'll take what I can get," Lestrade replied causing both John and Dr. Janssen to smile.

Once Sherlock was upright Dr. Janssen stepped forwards, Sherlock was looking incredibly pale, which was likely caused by the change in orientation so he waited a moment before he started speaking. "Well, Mr. Holmes, I think you're well aware of what we need from you, but I'll just run over it quickly again, you weren't in much of a state to be listening last time I saw you. Basically we need a blood sample to get a rough idea how the chemotherapy has been working. It'll give us an indication but we're going to have to take blood samples a couple of times a day for the next few days to be sure. We also need to do a lumbar puncture to see how many cancer cells are in your cerebrospinal fluid. When the cells get into this fluid they begin to essentially attack your nerves, which is why you cannot move your hand. The results will tell us what we need to give you to help cure you. You should regain the movement in your arm pretty quickly once we start tomorrow. Now, have you got any questions?" Sherlock shook his head and closed his eyes when he did so, his brain was punishing him for moving into an upright position.

"I was meaning to ask," continued Dr. Janssen. "Will your brother be dropping by any time soon?"

"He's coming this afternoon," John replied as Sherlock shook his head. The detective then looked up in surprise at John.

"Why is Mycroft coming here?" he asked, half in curiosity and half in frustration at the thought of his brother seeing him in such a state.

"Because I told him what was going on and he's worried."

"No, he's just curious," Sherlock replied. John almost replied but bit his tongue; he wasn't going to get in an argument over that with Sherlock.

"I only ask because this kind of cancer can be treated with a bone marrow transplant. We want to test your brother to see if he is a match."

"He won't do it," Sherlock replied causing both John and Dr. Janssen to frown at the younger man.

"Ignore him," John replied. "He'll be here any time now so just talk to him about it when he gets here."

"That's good," Dr. Janssen said half to the occupants of the room and half to himself. "Now, we need to get these samples. Is it okay for Dr. Harrison to perform these procedures?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied. He would have preferred for her not to be doing them, but he didn't care enough to bother with kicking up a fuss. "That's great, I'll leave you in her capable hands. If there's any problems give me a shout. I'll be about; I have a few patients to see on this ward. I'll check in on you before I go."

Once Dr. Janssen left the room Dr. Harrison moved to the table to pick up the blood drawing kit that had been left there from before and ripped it open without saying a word. The expression on her face made it evident that she would prefer to be anywhere but there. "Mr. Holmes, are you happy for these two to be here while I do these procedures?" she asked, not stopping to look at him.

"I'm not bothered; they can stay if they want." At this John sat down and Lestrade moved so that he was out of the way but still close to Sherlock. She turned to face the two other men.

"In that case I'm going to ask you to leave; if you ask one of the nurses they'll bring you coffee and you can just wait outside." Lestrade's mouth was agape and John's expression was that of poorly concealed rage at the sudden turn of events.

"Sherlock said we can stay, you have no right to try and make us leave." John objected while battling very strong urges to punch the woman on the jaw.

"He said he wasn't bothered if you stayed. Usually it is better for a patient to have procedures like this without their family or friends around if they can. Mr. Holmes obviously can so I'm going to ask you to leave."

"What a load of crap," Lestrade said loudly.

"I want them to stay," Sherlock interjected, causing Dr. Harrison to whirl around and look at him so fast he felt dizzy.

"You just said you didn't mind."

"I didn't mind, but then I saw how much you wanted them to leave, so now I am interested and I want them to stay." Both Lestrade and John smirked at the very Sherlock-like response. Lestrade folded his arms and leant casually against the wall while John hoisted his feet onto the edge of Sherlock's bed, grabbed a newspaper from the table next to him and shook it pointedly as he opened it. Dr. Harrison continued what she was doing in silence, glaring at everyone in the room as she went along.

~0~

John heard the steady tap of Mycroft's umbrella against the laminate flooring before he even caught a glimpse of the man. Sherlock was not asleep but was lying on the bed, on his back, with his eyes closed trying to stave off the crippling headache that the lumbar puncture had given him, and Lestrade was sitting in a chair reading the newspaper. So as to maintain the relative peace in the room, John hurried out to intercept Mycroft before he got there. They practically walked straight into each other in the doorway at which point John pushed Mycroft into the corridor and shut the door behind them.

Mycroft made a sound of annoyance and indignation and carefully smoothed out his jacket. Other than that he drew no attention to the fact that the doctor had physically pushed him out of his sick brother's room. "How is Sherlock doing?" he asked. There was something akin to worry evident in his eyes and it set John highly on edge. He was not used to seeing any discernible emotion in the elder Holmes especially poorly concealed concern for his younger brother. They were both almost constantly at each other's throats.

"Is your surveillance team not at hand to tell you these things?" John asked. He knew he shouldn't, he knew he should be nice to Mycroft considering he was a worried family member but he couldn't help himself. A part of John just wanted to have some semblance of normality and annoying Mycroft seemed to be the easiest way of achieving this normality.

"They are being replaced as we speak," Mycroft replied, obviously not noticing the barb. "I felt it was necessary considering they failed to provide me with vital information regarding Sherlock's health earlier in the day." John shivered at Mycroft's statement, it sounded significantly more sinister than if anybody else had said it.

"Sherlock's doing better," John said, deciding to just try and forget what Mycroft had just said. "He has agreed to treatment after a bit of persuasion so that's good. He's just had a lumbar puncture so has a pretty nasty headache. You can come and see him but keep it quiet." Mycroft nodded in understanding and went to step forward but was held back by the doctor. "Before you leave make sure you go to see Dr. Janssen, they want to run a blood test on you to see if you'd be a suitable bone marrow donor to Sherlock." Once again Mycroft nodded, not really listening to what John was saying, before finally making it into Sherlock's room.

~0~

"Go away Mycroft," Sherlock spat before his brother had even managed to enter the room. The weakness of his voice did nothing to hide his irritation at his brother being there

"Always a pleasure to see you too," he replied, making his way next to Sherlock's bed in two long strides. "Would you two mind leaving us for a while? I want some time to talk to my brother." Lestrade looked up in surprise at the elder of the Holmes brothers before nodding in consent.

"Yeah, er, sure," he replied before standing up and patting Sherlock affectionately on the knee. Sherlock opened his eyes and glared at Mycroft who met his gaze without as much as a flinch.

"Don't stress him out too much Mycroft, he's got a lot of treatment to get through and the last thing he needs is you wearing him down," John ordered before he left the room.

"I wouldn't dream of it doctor," Mycroft replied coolly, never once dropping his brother's icy glare.

~0~

The light in the room seemed to be cutting deep into his retinas like sharp knives, sending deep tendrils of pain shooting through his skull. He'd managed to keep his eyes open for a short while but eventually it got too much, conceding defeat he dropped Mycroft's gaze and squeezed his eyes shut. The pain lessened significantly, but it still felt like there were electrical pulses being sent through his brain. There was a scraping noise as Mycroft pushed there chair away from the bed slightly so he could sit down.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft's presence was quickly turning his headache from being pretty mild to cataclysmic.

"I am concerned," he replied, beginning to tap rhythmically on the ground with the tip of his umbrella. "Have you had any coffee? I hear caffeine is meant to be effective in controlling headaches after undergoing a lumbar puncture."

"You're not concerned, you're curious. I've been lying in this bed for about a week now and you have made relatively little effort to see me. Why now?"

"Have you had caffeine? If you haven't I'll call a nurse to get you a coffee."

"Stop deflecting, it doesn't suit you."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft said in a tone Sherlock had been hearing from the man his whole life. It said that Mycroft's patience was running low and if he kept at it Mycroft was going to just take control of the situation and Sherlock would not have a say in what happened at all.

Groaning, knowing he had no other choice, Sherlock answered the question. "Yes, of course I've had caffeine. The doctors here are neither sadistic nor idiotic; of course they made sure I had a coffee."

Mycroft made a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat causing Sherlock to open his eyes to glare at him, a decision he instantly regretted. "What?" he demanded.

"From what I've heard that isn't entirely true. Both you and John seem to have something against a…" there was a brief pause while Mycroft pulled out a notebook and began flicking through it for the information he was looking for. "Here we are, a Dr. Harrison?" he looked up curiously. The detective could feel anger welling up inside him. He didn't like Mycroft spying on him and he didn't need the notebook, he knew the doctor's name perfectly fine, it was all just for show. He decided he was not going to play his brother's game so didn't answer the question.

"John seems to think that you think she's doing something. What is it?"

"You've put on a couple of pounds since I last saw you," Sherlock hissed weakly. He was feeling tired again, he could feel it in his bones. It was a weariness that was similar to what he would usually feel after a five day long case with little to no sleep or food. It angered him that his body weakened so fast, that he was so incapable. He longed for the days that he could go days without sleeping and chase after criminals.

"Look who is deflecting now," Mycroft replied with a hint of satisfaction marring his voice. Sherlock didn't bother responding again, he was not giving his brother the satisfaction. "What is she doing, Sherlock? If she's doing anything to you then I want her to stop." There was a few seconds of silence as Sherlock considered his options. Mycroft did indeed sound concerned which was odd to say the least. It was yet another puzzle for him to solve. He didn't want Mycroft to make it all go away though; he wanted to figure out why she was doing it in the first place. He didn't understand and it was bothering him. He wasn't sure how she was getting away with it either. During his time at the hospital Sherlock had been doing some digging, not much, but as much as he could manage, and he could find nothing. Somehow she had managed to cover her steps.

"She is doing something." At this point Sherlock had to raise his hand, even though his eyes were shut, he knew that Mycroft was about to interrupt him. "I'm not telling you what. I haven't figured out why or how she's getting away with it yet but when I work it out I'll let you know."

"What's stopping me just dealing with her now?" Mycroft asked. "If you told me what she is doing then at least I'll be able to deal with her accordingly." Mycroft was beginning to sound a long way away and Sherlock knew he was about to drift off. He needed this exchange to finish quickly before he fell asleep mid-sentence.

"You like to dish out punishments in proportion to the crime committed. If you don't know what she's doing you're not going to make her disappear or whatever you're calling it these days. You'll want to know exactly what her wrongdoing is first. I know you too well."

"Just tell me Sherlock."

"You'll have to find out yourself."

"Very well, I'll just have to do this the harder way." Sherlock wasn't sure if Mycroft said anything else as almost as soon as those words were out his brother's mouth Sherlock had drifted off into unconsciousness once again.


	18. Unexpected Visitors

"No."

"Mr…"

"No." Sherlock cut Dr. Janssen off again, point blank refusing his request.

"We need to put the catheter in if you're going to have this treatment."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded childishly. John was sitting back watching the scene unfold before him, enjoying the fact that for once it was not his job to try to persuade his friend to accept medical treatment. He knew he would get involved if this played out much longer, but for the moment he was merely going to watch. "Why do I need that when I can still get up and use the bathroom myself?" John was pretty sure that Sherlock thought he sounded a lot stronger than he actually was. His voice was coming out harsh and raspy. Certainly he sounded angry, but he didn't sound like a man who could carry out a threat.

"Because these drugs are powerful and we need to monitor your urine output to make sure that they don't do in your kidneys."

"I'll go in a urine bottle or whatever then. I'm just not having that," Sherlock stated, glaring at the rubber tubing in Dr. Janssen's hands.

"I'm afraid that I can't give you the new drugs until you consent to having the catheter. They are powerful; they're going to knock you for six. They could easily cause your kidneys to start shutting down, in which case we will need to stop the drugs immediately. By the end of the course you probably won't be able to get up to the bathroom, in which case the catheter will be useful as well."

"I'll just keep going with the drugs I was on then. They seemed to be working, albeit slowly." John shook his head; he knew he'd have to interfere. Dr. Janssen was very good with Sherlock, but there were some things which could be only learned by spending several years living with the man.

"I thought you agreed to get the treatment Sherlock?" John asked; putting down the paper he'd been pretending to read.

"I'm getting treated, just not with the drugs that are going to put me into kidney failure." John could see Sherlock was beginning to get worn out, it had been a busy day for him and it was only four in the afternoon. It meant he'd have to work fast though before Sherlock fell asleep, mid conversation.

"They won't put you into kidney failure if you let them put the catheter in."

"I won't go into kidney failure if I stay on the drugs I was on. Don't try and push me into treatment I don't want John." Sherlock was getting frustrated, that much was obvious despite the fact the man could not shout. That last statement hit John hard. He honestly did not want to make Sherlock do anything that he did not want to do but neither did he want the man to inadvertently kill himself because he was a stubborn idiot. All he had to do was push a little more, Sherlock was almost there.

"I don't want to make you do anything, Sherlock, but you're planning on risking your life by taking less effective drugs simply because you don't want a tube shoved up your penis. I can understand that, but even you have to realise how foolish that seems."

Sherlock was taken slightly by surprise by John's comment. He had witnessed his friend's impressive vocabulary when it came to male anatomy, but he was not used to the doctor actually using the proper anatomical word, especially in regards to him. It did make it all seem closer to home for the detective. They weren't sitting here discussing a case and John wasn't here telling him about one of his patients. They were talking about him, about his health. They were discussing a procedure that would be done to him and would directly affect him. He did not want anything put up there, but he certainly did not think it was a cause he was willing to die for. John didn't seem to quite understand that his senses were more heightened than most people's and that this meant he felt unpleasant sensations more acutely than most people. This was a factor which needed to be taken into consideration while making the decision, but if he didn't have the treatment there was a high chance he'd die, which was surely worse than the pain. Again this brought him back to the fact that this was his life on the line. Perhaps he should just let them do it no matter how unpleasant or embarrassing he considered it to be. Sherlock sighed internally; he really did hate John sometimes.

"Would you like me to give the two of you a few minutes to discuss this?" Dr. Janssen asked, looking backwards and forwards between the two men. John smiled an almost sadistic grin and stood up from his chair.

"No, that won't be necessary." He began to head towards the door but stopped and looked back towards Sherlock. "You're going to let him do this aren't you?" he asked Sherlock who nodded his head reluctantly.

"Although, I would appreciate a moment to speak to John," Sherlock said after a moment of consideration.

"Sure, I'll be outside when you're ready. Just give me a shout," Dr. Janssen replied kindly.

Sherlock waited until the door clicked shut before turning his attention to John. "John," Sherlock started. His voice sounded slightly shaky and he was worrying the blanket between his long fingers. Everything about him screamed anxiety so John made sure he paid attention. Nothing else escaped the detective's lips for almost a whole minute, at which point he'd obviously managed to summon up the courage to say what he was going to say.

"I don't want the catheter."

"Sherlock…" John started automatically but bit his tongue when Sherlock raised his shaky arm to indicate he hadn't said what he wanted to.

"I'll have it because I promised I would carry on the treatment. I just wanted you to know I didn't want it. You wanted me to tell you how I was feeling, didn't you?" Sherlock asked, suddenly looking his friend straight in the eye. He looked so worried, his eyes searching for some kind of reassurance that he hadn't done anything wrong, and John rushed to try and set the man at ease.

"I did want you to and I am glad that you're letting them put it in. It's not going to be nice, but in the long run it'll be better for you." Sherlock nodded and looked back down to continue fiddling with the sheets with his working hand. John stood there and observed his friend's uncharacteristic behaviour and frowned. There was something wrong, something that wasn't simply due to the cancer. Worry was obviously weighing heavily on the detective; it was a look which did not suit his young face. At that moment he just looked so innocent and scared, John had the urge to hug him which was a feeling he had never experienced with Sherlock before. He resisted, even in this state he didn't think Sherlock would appreciate it. It didn't mean that he couldn't try and help though.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" he asked gently. There was no response, no scathing remark saying what a stupid question that was. There was no indication that Sherlock had even heard the question, but John knew he had, Sherlock never missed anything. "Because, it's alright if you're not you know." This seemed to get to him as his fingers stopped playing with the blanket; he just gripped it tightly and continued staring blankly at his lap. That was the only response he got for a while, so long in fact that he'd almost given up waiting. But then an impossibly small voice, which didn't sound as if it could possibly belong to the detective, seemed to echo around the room.

"No, I don't think I am."

~0~

Dr. Janssen didn't know how long it was he'd been sitting outside of Sherlock's room before John emerged, but it seemed like quite a while. He'd managed to get a lot of his paperwork done and was tempted to just walk into the room to see what was going on, as he did have other patients which he needed to see. He was just on the verge of standing up when John walked out of the room, closing the door gently behind him. "He's all yours," John informed him. John's concern for Sherlock seemed to emanate from every fibre of his being and Dr. Janssen was glad of this. Far too many times he had seen good people trying to fight a disease alone and failing, it was really good that Sherlock had such a good support base; medicine could only do so much.

"Is he alright?" Dr. Janssen asked without quite meaning to. He found himself trusting John's judgement on his patient's wellbeing, both physical and mental, more than he did the other staff. In response John shrugged his shoulders.

"As well as can be expected really. Just be gentle with him, I think he's just getting tired."

"It's understandable; he's had hardly any respite since this whole thing began and he had hardly any time to come to terms with his illness. Unfortunately given the rapid progression we haven't had the luxury of time, and we won't either until we manage to get him into remission."

"I know, I know," John replied while rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "It's just hard to see him like this. He's normally so strong and confident in himself, it's almost like the cancer has destroyed that part of him."

Dr. Janssen's eyes seemed to soften and he smiled sadly. "John, you need to remember that he is not the only one suffering here. This illness is affecting everyone who knows him, including you. There is no shame in finding this difficult or stressful. This sort of thing can put huge strains on those who are providing care and from what I can make out, other than the doctors at this hospital; you are the primary care giver. If you want me to arrange someone for you to talk to it might be a good idea." John shook his head vehemently.

"I appreciate the offer but no thanks. I've seen enough therapists to last me a life time and it didn't seem to be the right thing for me." A look of confusion and concern flashed across Dr. Janssen's face causing John to chuckle. "PTSD," he said as a way of explanation. "And a psychosomatic limp. I was in therapy for months and I had no visible benefits from it. One day with Sherlock and both problems vanished into thin air. Anyway," John said shaking himself having suddenly realised how much he had revealed to the older doctor. There was something about him which seemed trustworthy. "You better go in and see him before he falls asleep."

"Yes, that's probably a good idea." He began to head for Sherlock's door, just as he stretched out for the handle he turned to look at John. "Just let me know if you need anything and I'll make sure it is arranged."

~0~

When he walked into the room Dr. Janssen could feel Sherlock's eyes watching him carefully. "Are you still okay for me to go ahead with this?" he asked, stopping next to the younger man's bed. He looked terrible, his skin was so pale it was almost translucent and his cheekbones were protruding so far it looked they were about to tear through his skin. The man looked too thin; he had a sneaking suspicion that he was going to have to get the nutritionist in again before the intense treatment was finished. In fact he was almost certain of it; he'd get him to stand on a set of scales before he made his final decision.

"I don't think I have much of a choice," Sherlock replied grumpily. It was obvious he was trying to hide something; he was trying to act confident to hide how nervous he was. It was hard to see it, but Dr. Janssen had spent many years as a doctor, he'd come to be able to read people even when they were desperately trying to hide something. He knew better than to call Sherlock out on it.

"Of course you have a choice Mr. Holmes, but the one you are making is the right one."

"Just get on with it," Sherlock replied and Dr Janssen nodded. If that's what he wanted he was not going to deny him that.

~0~

"We're finished now," Dr. Janssen said, picking up all the torn open packaging and heading over to the yellow bin in the corner. "You'll be having another blood test a little later on, but apart from that we're not going to be prodding you with anything else today you'll be glad to know." He turned back to face Sherlock who was sitting up in bed and looking decidedly more pale than when he'd started the procedure. He knew for a fact that Sherlock was not fond of being touched, so that procedure must have been quite a nasty experience for him. Without saying anything he walked over the Sherlock's bed and handed him an emesis basin just in case. Sherlock didn't say anything, he just held onto it with bony fingers.

"The nurses are going to come and check your bag and empty it every hour or so. The bag will be changed each day and we'll need to check you for infection about twice a day. As I said before there are rarely any complications if this procedure is done correctly, but we can't be too sure. Your immune system has been knocked around recently." Again Sherlock didn't say anything; he simply nodded and closed his eyes, leaning back into the pillows.

"I'll go and get John for you."

~0~

"How're you doing mate?" John asked as he entered the room. Sherlock didn't bother to reply; instead he simply looked at John who chuckled. "That good eh?"

"I'm tired again," Sherlock stated unexpectedly. John had imagined many things which Sherlock would say. However after spending several years with Sherlock he'd learned to expect the unexpected.

"Well get some sleep then, I'll be quiet for you."

"I'm always tired."

"I know, that's because you're ill. I'm pretty sure we've been through this already. You're allowed to be tired, so just listen to your body for once."

"John?" At this John sighed, the procedure must have really rattled the man, he wasn't acting normally at all.

"Yes?"

"I want to be alone." That certainly was unexpected, but the doctor knew he really shouldn't be that surprised, this was Sherlock after all."

"Okay," he said slowly. "But you have to promise me you'll stay in bed this time. No gallivanting off anywhere."

"Do I really look like I am capable of wandering off anywhere?" Sherlock quipped.

"No, but you didn't last time and we ended up having to launch a man hunt."

"Your tendency to exaggerate is getting worse." He sounded like he was getting out of breath again, he really needed to get some rest and he obviously wanted a few minutes of peace which was quite a reasonable request.

"Ok, I'll go back to Baker Street and grab a shower but then I'm coming back here."

"There's really no need…"

"There may not be any need, but I want to. I'll see you later Sherlock, make sure you get some rest." John smirked when he saw Sherlock's eyelids flickering before he'd even stepped out the door.

~0~

"Oranges and lemons say the bells of St Clement's.

You owe me five farthings say the bells of St Martin's"

Sherlock began to stir from his deep sleep. He was extremely groggy and his whole body seemed heavy, and it was an effort to lift even an arm off of the mattress. He could hear something in the background, but he wrote it off to being simply the remnants of a dream. Cracking his eyes open slightly he winced as the bright light pierced through the gap, searing through his retina and causing and electric shock of pain to shoot behind his eyes and into the rest of his brain. Perhaps opening his eyes so quickly was not a good idea.

"When will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey.

When I grow rich say the bells of Shoreditch."

The voice was getting louder instead of quieter, which meant it was probably real and not the remnant of a dream as he had originally suspected. The tune seemed familiar, it was most likely something he had known in his youth and subsequently deleted. The voice which sung it was soft, almost soothing, and had an Irish lilt to it. At that moment realisation slapped Sherlock in the face and he slammed his eyes open and the onslaught of nauseating pain which exploded in his head paled into insignificance compared to the realisation of who was in the room with him.

"When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney.

I do not know says the great bell of bow."

Why was Moriarty here? He shouldn't be there in the room with him, the man didn't like to get his hands dirty, so why was he here with him? What possible interest could he provide for the Irishman in his current weakened state? Moriarty's steely eyes met Sherlock's unflinchingly and he continued with his childish rhyme.

"And here comes a candle to light you to bed,

And here comes a chopper to chop off your head."

Why was he here, Sherlock couldn't comprehend it. He pushed the nervousness he felt whenever Moriarty was around right into the pit of his stomach. That was not going to help him. "Curious things nursery rhymes. Children sing them in playground as a game but yet the actual meanings behind them are gruesome. Oranges and lemons for example, the first part of the rhyme is fairly dull to be honest, I won't bore you with the details. The last two lines are fascinating though and pretty relevant I feel. It's about prisoners on death row in their cells on the night before their execution. They'd be informed of their imminent demise by a man carrying a candle and the next day they'd be beheaded. Most people do not know what it is like, just sitting and waiting to die. But you'd be able to relate to them, wouldn't you Sherlock?

Sherlock didn't reply to the madman, he knew for sure that if he said anything Moriarty was going to be able to use it against him. He was painfully aware of how slow is brain was working and Moriarty would win at any mind game so he was not going to engage in one. Sherlock's silence was met by a grin from Moriarty. "I'm going to take this as a yes then." The detective felt the energy rapidly seeping out of his body but he fought to stay conscious, it unnerved him enough to know the Irishman had been in the room with him while he was asleep before. There was no way he was letting that happen again.

"Why are you here?" he demanded, hoping to make the conversation end as fast as he could.

"You're not at all chatty today are you Sherlock? Shame, I do rather enjoy our conversations, they're always so fascinating. I'm here because I've heard you've had a bit of contention with one of the doctor's here." Sherlock stared unblinkingly at the man sitting in the chair next to his bed, willing him just to hurry up and spit everything out. "Ooh, really not talkative at all. I've heard she has a bit of a liking for leaking information to the press. It must be pretty nasty, having such a terrible and debilitating illness and knowing that huge numbers of people across the world know exactly what you're going through. Were you aware that I have many—I'm not sure what to call them—friends in the press who have a huge amount of control as to what makes it into the news and what does not?"

"I don't want your help with this," Sherlock almost snapped, all he wanted was for Moriarty to leave. He could not relax if he knew Moriarty was about, if the Irishman was there it meant everyone Sherlock cared about was in potential danger.

Moriarty chuckled unnervingly, a sinister grin spread across his young features. "Oh Sherlock, you must be sick, you've misunderstood me completely. Why would I help you when I get such great pleasure in helping all your personal information get into all the newspapers and broadcast over the major news channels?"

"What?" Sherlock asked; confusion evident in his face, His head was getting more painful and he gripped the side of the bed with his good hand. He really wasn't in the right shape for the mind game Moriarty was evidently trying, and succeeding, to drag him into.

Moriarty groaned dramatically and the sound seemed to rattle Sherlock's brain, it felt as if someone was having a fireworks display in there. Sparks of pain were shooting throughout his head and down his spine. The nausea was getting worse, but he needed to focus so he pushed it down, as soon as Moriarty left he could give into the pain. "You're soooo slow when you're ill. You're boring Sherlock, almost not worth playing with but I've got nothing to do at the moment. Even when you're slow you're more interesting than the rest of humanity. I helped Dr. Davina Harrison to protect her identity while telling the press intimate details about your treatment. She got paid by me and the press and her career is protected. It's a win-win situation for everyone, except you of course." Sherlock mentally slapped himself. He'd known Dr. Harrison must have received help from someone and Moriarty should have been his first guess. The man liked to subtly destroy a reputation. By letting people know how weak he was with the cancer, he'd ensured that they would always have doubts about his strength if he did recover, there would always be a niggling doubt in the back of their minds.

"Is that why you came here, to tell me this?" Sherlock was beginning to feel breathless, like he needed the oxygen back on. Perhaps if he got worked up enough an alarm would go off and he could get them to make Moriarty leave, because there was no way he was strong enough to get him to leave.

"Relax Sherlock, I'll be gone in a couple of minutes," Moriarty said, seemingly having read his mind. "I came to tell you to leave it well alone. Don't tell to your big brother or anything like that, just leave it."

"Why should I?" Sherlock asked angrily although his voice came out as a mere rasp.

"Because it would be an awful shame for Dr. Watson to get hurt over such a trivial matter as this." Sherlock didn't notice his breath hitch; whenever John's safety was threatened his brain went into overdrive and could only focus on ensuring John was safe. The Irishman smirked and rose from his chair. "I trust we have an agreement then," he commented. "I hope you're feeling better soon, I do miss our games." Sherlock watched as he prodded his paralysed arm which lay limply next to him in the plaster. Picking it up Sherlock and Moriarty watched, the former with disgust and the latter with morbid fascination, as it fell limply and uselessly onto the bed. "I'll see you later Sherlock," and with that he disappeared out of the door.

As soon as the door was shut a shaky breath escaped Sherlock's lips and he screwed his eyes tightly shut. Moriarty was a formidable opponent, and at the best of times he unnerved him. When Sherlock was at his best he enjoyed the challenge the madman presented but at this point, when he was weak and frail, it terrified him. If he wanted to hurt John there was nothing Sherlock could do to protect him. Subconsciously he rolled up onto his side and buried his face into the cool pillow. It wasn't long before he fell asleep despite trying to stay awake to think about how to protect John from the latest threat.

~0~

When he awoke again Sherlock was immediately aware that he was not the only one in the room. Given his recent experience, he shot up into a sitting position and instantly regretted his decision. In the moment before his vision began to swim he saw that John, Mrs. Hudson, Molly and Lestrade were all standing in the corner talking almost silently to each other. Then his vision began to fade as the blood rushed from his head, the room began to spin around him and he felt experienced hands guiding him gently back into a lying position. His heart was pounding vigorously within his chest and his stomach churned violently within him.

"You alright Sherlock?" he heard Lestrade asking above him. "I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone move that fast before." Sherlock nodded and tried to push himself into an upright position again with his good arm, he wasn't sure how long he was going to manage with one hand. It was hard enough to manage in hospital when he was doing nothing. If he recovered he would need a lot of help on crime scenes and he wasn't sure he could cope with that.

Kind hands, John's hand, pushed him back into the mattress. "Just lie down for a minute," Lestrade was saying softly. "You went down pretty quick just then. Just take it slow." For once Sherlock listened to his friend; that was embarrassing enough toppling over simply from sitting upright. Instead he tried to coax his brain to start deducing. He could smell the slight aroma of biscuits, so Mrs. Hudson had been baking. It smelt like the granola biscuits she made. John would make him eat them if he'd been on a long case and his stomach couldn't cope with anything rich. His brain wasn't processing anything else, but for once he didn't mind, he simply focussed on the fact that while his friends were in the room with him they were safe and Moriarty couldn't touch them.

For a few minutes they were all completely silent and Sherlock lay there with his eyes shut. He was fighting to regain control of his stomach and to stave off the dull throbbing sitting at the back of his head. Eventually he opened his eyes to be met by Molly's gentle gaze. She was sitting where Moriarty had been sitting; it was nicer than he would admit to see her kind face instead of his cold features. "How're you feeling?" she asked and Sherlock felt the familiar irritation that he felt whenever someone asked something stupid rise up within him.

"Just fine and dandy," he replied. To his surprise she simply smirked, she was just glad to see that he was intact even if his body wasn't. Instead of replying she simply handed him the remote which allowed him to change the position of the bed.

"I brought you some baking," Mrs Hudson said enthusiastically, unable to hold herself back. "It's the granola bars you like." Sherlock certainly did not like them, but occasionally they were the only thing his stomach could take. "John said your stomach's not right at the moment so I thought that these might help."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied, giving a weak smile. Sometimes that was the only way to stem her enthusiasm.

"Oh Sherlock, Baker Street isn't the same without you!" She cried and headed over to Sherlock, the detective allowed her to embrace him and he raised his arm and patted her on the back as a way of reciprocation. "You're far too thin!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed in shock. "Come on, you need to eat these and get some weight back on you."

"I can't right now," Sherlock replied apologetically.

"Okay, but be sure that you do have them at some point though." He nodded in compliance but then glowered as he saw both John and Lestrade trying, and failing, to hide how amusing they'd found his little exchange.

"Shut up," he snapped but they both ignored him, Sherlock continued to glare at them until they had both calmed down.

"So Sherlock, we realise how bored you must be getting simply sitting in here all day every day," John started. "So we thought that, if you're feeling up to it, we could play a little Cluedo." The detective's eyes lit up as he saw Molly producing the game set from her bag and John smiled at how enthusiastic his friend was. "I'll take that as a yes then. We are playing this on the condition that you realise that suicide is not a possibility at all. The victim cannot kill themselves."

"It was the only possible explanation," Sherlock objected and John groaned.

"No it wasn't Sherlock. You were just annoyed I got the right answer before you did."


	19. Another Course of Action

Sherlock blinked his eyes blearily as he tried to pull himself back into consciousness. His body obviously did not want to cooperate but eventually he managed to win the battle. Despite this small victory, Sherlock felt absolutely dreadful, and what made it worse was that he knew that the worst was yet to come. He still had a pretty intense course of chemotherapy to get through, and then a few weeks' worth of recuperation before he could even think of trying to restore some semblance of normalcy. With each pound of his heart, a wave of deep throbbing pain spread across his body and seemed to permeate every fibre of his being, finding its way into every joint, bone and nerve. It was absolute agony. The ever-present nausea gnawed aggressively at the bottom of his stomach and his lungs desperately fought to keep drawing air into his lungs. Simply lying in bed and breathing was wearing him out. He felt so weak and helpless.

The box from the game the night before lay innocently on the table next to his bed. Although he would never admit it, Sherlock had enjoyed himself last night while playing Cluedo with his friends. He hadn't managed to keep going that long. After half an hour his brain was too clouded for him to think properly. It had resulted in Sherlock sweeping the board on the floor with his good arm in frustration, which really shouldn't have surprised John as much as it did. In Sherlock's opinion Cluedo had the potential to be a good game if it weren't for the so called 'rules'. The murderers he dealt with on a daily basis were not constrained by rules so he didn't see why a game about a murder case was also constrained by them. As far as he was concerned, suicide should be a possibility.

After the game everyone had gone home except John, who had stayed by his side throughout the whole night. Sherlock had woken up a number of times and each time John was there, wide awake, asking if he needed anything. His medical training was obviously kicking in, giving him the ability to stay awake through the long watches of the night. Sherlock honestly could not comprehend why John was doing all he was doing for him, but he was starting not to question it and merely accepting it for what it was: friendship. He definitely did not deserve John Watson, but it certainly felt nice to have someone who actually cared about him.

Early in the morning John had left to have a shower and get some sleep and he promised that either himself or someone else would be there when Sherlock's treatment started. Soon after the doctor had left Sherlock had fallen back to sleep.

Now the detective looked around the empty room and frowned as an unfamiliar feeling welled up within him. Normally he could find comfort in solitude, but now there was none; he missed the feeling of having someone by his side. The loneliness gnawed at the pit of his stomach, like a hunger, calling out desperately for some kind of human interaction. Sherlock growled in frustration, the cancer was obviously taking its toll on his body. Perhaps it had worked its way into his brain. Sherlock shook his head vehemently, determined to get that thought out of his mind. It was bad enough that his transport had been weakened as much as it had, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to cope if it started damaging his mind.

He needed a cigarette, he could feel himself getting worked up and that was the best way to force himself to relax. One of the nurses had cigarettes and a lighter in her pocket; she came in every hour to check on his catheter. It would be easy to sneak them out of her pocket the next time she came in. Until then he decided he could have a quick nap, he had nothing better to do.

~0~

As it turned out, it was even easier to nick the cigarettes and lighter than he had anticipated. He swiped them out of her pocket while she diligently wrote down notes on the clipboard. She soon asked Sherlock if he needed anything and then left again.

Every fibre of Sherlock's being wanted to go and stand outside and have his cigarette, but he knew that the likelihood of him making it that far by himself was slim to none, let alone making the journey back to his room too. If he did that and John came back while he was out he was pretty sure there would be hell to pay. The doctor would probably insist on Lestrade handcuffing Sherlock to the bed and in his current state there was very little that Sherlock would be able to do to stop that happening. He could always ask a nurse to take him out, but he was pretty sure that they wouldn't let him smoke given his current condition. The detective was slightly tempted to smoke there and then in the bed and deal with the legal ramifications of smoking in a hospital later, but the oxygen canister sat ominously next to his bed, and he wasn't foolish enough to light up next to that. There was one more option, the window opened pretty far; it would be relatively easy to lean out so as to not set off any alarms. So long as he remained undisturbed, everything would be fine.

Slowly, so as not to make himself dizzy, Sherlock sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He unhooked the catheter bag from the side of the bed and hung it on the lowest hook on the IV stand. The wheels on the stand squeaked loudly as he gradually made his way over to the other side of the room, one hand gripping tightly to the stand and the other hanging uselessly in the sling.

The doctor's had assured him that once the next round of treatment had started he should regain the use of his arm pretty quickly; it was possible that he would start noticing a difference after a matter of hours. Sherlock certainly hoped that was the case, he was sick of only having one arm. His useless one was broken but he didn't care, all he wanted was to regain movement in it. His biggest fear was that the damage was permanent and that he would not be able to play his violin. Just thinking about his violin made him long for the touch of the smooth wood under his fingertips and the way the bow seemed to flow seamlessly across the strings. The sensation was just as soothing to him as the notes the instrument emitted. He was sure that the hospital wouldn't want him playing the thing, but perhaps he could hold it and pluck at the strings; even that seemed to calm him and help him focus. He should ask John to bring it over to the hospital for him.

There was no point in thinking about that, John was probably tucked up in bed, fast asleep in 221B. Just thinking about Baker Street sent a pang of yearning straight through the detective's heart. He shoved the feeling down; he wasn't getting home for another fortnight at least so there was no point in dwelling on it. All he had to be thinking about was the packet of cigarettes in his hand and the temporary relief they would provide.

Once he reached the window he shoved it open, which required more than a little brute force. He sat himself down uncomfortably on the narrow window sill and placed a cigarette between his narrow, pale lips. With trembling hands he lifted the lighter to the end and it quickly caught. Relief quickly flowed through Sherlock and his whole body relaxed and he sighed with relief. He could already feel that his lungs were not going to thank him for this treatment, but he was well beyond caring. Almost reverently he took another deep breath and felt his body relax even more, he couldn't help but commend the nurse on her cigarette choice.

Suddenly a voice pierced through the silence of the room which caused Sherlock's whole body to tense up once again. "You do know it is illegal to smoke in hospitals," Mycroft commented nonchalantly as he closed the door carefully behind him.

"It's a good thing you're not Lestrade then," Sherlock replied after taking another drag. "You'd have to arrest me." In response Mycroft rolled his eyes but wandered across the room to stand at his little brother's side. "Why are you here Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded.

"My little brother is ill, why do you think I am here?"

"Well if you just wanted to know how I am you would have sent one of the idiots who work for you to come and check on me so I have no idea."

The elder Holmes sighed long-sufferingly. "As a matter of fact, I wanted to come and see you personally, partly to see how you are doing, and partly to let you know that I am a match."

"What?" Sherlock asked, his face bearing an expression of complete bewilderment.

"My bone marrow is compatible with yours. This gives you a much greater chance of survival."

"Why are you giving me your bone marrow?" Sherlock demanded, raising bewildered eyes to meet his brother's gaze. In response Mycroft sighed long-sufferingly, Sherlock truly believed that Mycroft hated him, which was far from the truth. Sure, Sherlock irritated him, but significantly less than the rest of the world did. The elder Holmes did everything within his power to ensure his little brother's safety, but Sherlock did not always like that; in fact, Mycroft could not think of a single time that he had be grateful for it.

"This bone marrow could very well save your life, Sherlock. I know you think I hate you but this is not the case. I want you to survive and if this transplant could save you then this transplant will happen."

"What if I don't give my consent?" Sherlock asked obstinately and Mycroft internally groaned at his stubbornness.

"You know I'll make sure it happens so there is no point in you fighting. The only reason you wouldn't give consent is out of pride. Don't be an idiot Sherlock." Sherlock looked his brother up and down, glaring, and took another drag from his cigarette. Irritated by his brother's behaviour Mycroft grabbed the cigarette from Sherlock's claw-like fingers, stubbed it out on the window sill and then chucked it out of the window.

"You've got enough trouble getting oxygen around your body, smoking is not a good idea right now," Mycroft stated in response to Sherlock's icy glare. "Anyway, I imagine John probably would not be impressed if he came back to find you smoking."

"John isn't going to be back here for at least another couple of hours," Sherlock responded with a growl.

"Just get into bed Sherlock, today is going to be hard going for you and you're already looking exhausted."

The younger Holmes narrowed his eyes in suspicion at his brother; if he didn't know better he'd say his brother actually cared. Of course he did know better, Mycroft must have some sort of angle. "What do you want out of this? Sherlock asked, hearing the weariness in his voice. His body was already beginning to struggle, and he knew his brain would quickly follow in its path.

"What are you on about?" Mycroft asked, looking utterly bewildered. It was not a look Sherlock had ever seen on his brother's features and it threw him completely off balance, both literally and figuratively.

Mycroft had surprisingly quick reflexes and managed to catch his sick brother as he began to topple to the floor. "Come on little brother, I think it's time for you to go back to bed." The two of them slowly walked away from the window, Sherlock leaning heavily against Mycroft's body. The detective didn't so much as utter a single complaint, which caused a small frown to crease Mycroft's brow, he'd expect Sherlock to be causing an awful fuss and fighting to get Mycroft off him. Instead he remained silent except for the wheezing which escaped his lungs. The man needed to be back on oxygen; that much was clear. The floor stretched out ominously before them and they didn't seem to be getting any closer. For a moment Mycroft was worried they wouldn't make it all the way. Sherlock may be beyond skinny, but he was tall and therefore not a light burden. Eventually they both made it without incident and Sherlock dropped heavily onto the bed, gasping pitifully for breath. Silently Mycroft pressed the call button and a nurse appeared out of nowhere and quietly placed the oxygen mask over Sherlock's nose and mouth. The man didn't even notice because he was already fast asleep.

~0~

"Mr. Holmes, I'm really sorry but I need you to wake up now," the voice resonated above him. Sherlock groaned as the sound tore through his head, causing it to throb. He wanted to sleep, why weren't they letting him sleep? Next there was a hand on his shoulder shaking him gently. "Come on Mr. Holmes, I won't keep you awake for long. Sleeping is the best thing for you."

"Was 'sleep," he mumbled almost incoherently as he pried his eyes open.

"I know, I'm sorry but we need you awake."

"We're about to start the new treatment." Sherlock turned his head to the side to see Mycroft sitting in the chair next to the bed; he was surprised to see his brother here. The detective had been convinced that Mycroft would have left as soon as he could. There was a pang of disappointment when he saw John was not there, he'd really wanted John to be there when he started the new regimen. He'd have to manage though, it was pathetic that he was relying on the doctor so much; he was an adult, so he should be able to handle things like that without someone there holding his hand.

He rolled his head back so he was looking at Dr. Janssen, who was standing next to the bed bearing a concerned expression. "Do you want to wait for Dr. Watson to come back before we start this?" he asked, seemingly reading Sherlock's mind. The detective looked behind Dr. Janssen to see Dr. Harrison standing there holding a bag which contained the poison they were going to pump into his veins and hopefully cure him. She was looking angry at the suggestion of waiting and Sherlock was tempted to tell them to wait just to annoy her. However, he did not want to annoy her because who knew what she would leak to the press if she did that and after seeing Moriarty he was now helpless to do anything about it, at least until he had regained some of his mental capacity.

"No, let's get this over with," he rasped and Dr. Janssen nodded. Dr. Harrison stepped forwards wordlessly and began hanging the bag and connecting various tubes.

"Ok," Dr. Janssen started saying while Dr. Harrison carried out her task. "As you've been told before these drugs are pretty strong and have some pretty nasty side effects. The likelihood is that whatever happens we will keep you on them, but some of the side effects are potentially life threatening. If you feel anything that doesn't feel quite right you need to let us know so we can fix it before it becomes too dangerous. Understand?" Sherlock nodded with his eyelids drooping. His brain was still half asleep and his body was quickly following suit.

~0~

His eyelids seemed reluctant to open, as if there were weights hanging off them forbidding him from opening his eyes. Waking up was hard for him these days, falling asleep always used to be such a battle for him, but now it seemed as if that was all he was actually good at. He forced himself to pry open his weary eyes. Everything around him seemed hazy and slightly out of reach, as if he himself weren't actually in the room but everything was just a projection around him. It was unnerving to say the least.

There was someone sitting next to the bed and Sherlock blinked his eyes a few times to force them to focus. At first he'd thought that Mycroft was still sitting in the room with him but as soon as his eyes focussed he realised it was Moriarty. He too seemed far away, sitting there reading a book and dressed in a well-fitted and stylish suit. Sherlock wasn't even sure that if he spoke that the consulting criminal would hear him.

It was at that moment that Moriarty looked up from the book he was reading and made eye contact with Sherlock. He grinned a shark-like grin and Sherlock could have sworn that there was blood dripping from the man's pearly white teeth. Smoothly Moriarty closed the book and stood up, making his way to Sherlock's bed and gently caressed his cheek. Despite the physical contact, the detective still felt completely detached from everything around him—including Moriarty. A shudder ran up Sherlock's spine, but he was helpless to pull away from the touch. There was no choice but to stay lying there and follow the madman with his eyes.

"I am so sorry Sherlock, but I had no choice," he gently cooed. That more than anything set Sherlock on edge. "You just kept on prying; trying to expose me and it was the only way to make sure you stopped."

"Didn't," Sherlock choked, finding that his vocal chords weren't working properly. He didn't know what Moriarty was on about, but he knew he was not going to like it. 

"I am sorry Sherlock, just stop prying and everyone else will be safe." Sherlock lay there, utterly confused for a few seconds when his eyes zeroed in on the open cupboard door in the side of his room. He felt bile rise up in his oesophagus and he sat up so quickly his head started spinning. He was doubled over as painful heaves took over his fragile body and Moriarty rubbed what were supposed to be reassuring circles into Sherlock's back. His touch was not reassuring but rather sickening, leaving a deep ache in the pit of the detective's stomach.

As Sherlock's body continued to abuse him he turned his head back towards the cupboard and gazed with tear filled eyes back at what had caused him such distress. John was laying there, stone cold. His body was the only clear thing in the room, the only thing which felt real. Moriarty had obviously murdered him then shoved him inside and the door had fallen open. John's cold, unseeing eyes stared blankly at Sherlock. His skin was a dusky grey and nothing of the man he had once been remained in that empty shell. Moriarty had taken it all away, destroyed the good man he had once been.

Sherlock was helpless to stop the loud sobs which escaped his lips and the tears which dropped from his eyes onto the bed, mixing with the bile and forming a foul concoction. "It's all right Sherlock," he heard Moriarty whispering next to him. "You just need to calm down and open your eyes." The bitter sadness was momentarily replaced with an intense, burning anger and Sherlock turned and punched Moriarty with a strength he had not possessed in a long time. There was a satisfying crunch as Sherlock's fist crushed cartilage in the Irishman's nose. The man recoiled violently, holding his nose as blood spurted out between his fingers. Pain flooded through his hand, causing the whole room to change around him, he fell back into the bed as the adrenaline began to wear off and reality started to catch up with him.

~0~

John arrived at the hospital soon after Sherlock's treatment was started, he was disappointed to have not been there when it did happen, but by the sounds of things Sherlock had barely even been conscious. He was now fast asleep, so John was sitting in the chair next to his bed, half reading the newspaper and half watching the toxic concoction dripping slowly into Sherlock's blood. Mycroft was sitting by the window rapidly typing on his phone. Apparently he'd taken a couple of days off work so he could spend time with Sherlock, but John suspected that everything was just getting relayed via Anthea.

There was an audible grunt from the bed and John was instantly on alert, Mycroft had stopped texting and his eyes were fixed on his little brother. For a few moments there was silence and Sherlock exhibited no signs of distress. The doctor was about to go back to reading the paper when there was another grunt and then, with hardly any warning, Sherlock shot upright in the bed. His eyes were wide and bloodshot and his body started trying to violently purge the man of all the bile in his stomach. There was nothing else there to come up. Mycroft didn't move, knowing Sherlock would not want him to see him like that. Instead John moved quickly to his side and began rubbing circles into Sherlock's back. He had no idea if it was the best thing to do, but he hadn't got any other ideas.

There was another noise, something John had never heard come from Sherlock before and something he had never expected to hear. Sherlock sobbed, not just once but over and over again. It was a broken sound, the sound of a man who had been forced to endure far too much and had reached the end of his tether. By this point, John was fairly sure Sherlock was awake, nobody could possibly sleep through the violent heaves of the vomiting and the heart-breaking sobbing that Sherlock was going through. "It's alright Sherlock," John said kindly. It looked as if the dry heaving had stopped leaving just the crying for Sherlock to contend with. "You just need to calm down and open your eyes."

Suddenly Sherlock stopped crying and John took his hand off the man's back, confused at the abrupt change in demeanour. One moment he was looking to see if Sherlock was okay, and the next there was an explosion of pain in his face. There was blood pouring everywhere and John recoiled, holding his nose and tripping over the chair behind him. He landed on the floor with a bang, but he hardly noticed as he tried to ignore the pain and stem the flow of blood at the same time. In the background he was vaguely aware of the usually composed Mycroft shouting for help and then a nurse pressing wads of tissue into his nose. All the while his eyes had been focussed on Sherlock. Mycroft was standing next to the detective, trying to talk to him, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice. The man looked sick, terrified and completely confused. He wanted to tell Sherlock he'd be okay, but he couldn't. All he wanted to do was comfort his friend but he was quickly whisked out of the room so the staff could fix his nose.

This left Sherlock, sitting on his bed, feeling incredibly alone despite his brother being next to him and a couple of nurses fussing about him. He could not believe that he had done that to his friend. If John wasn't going to leave before, he certainly was going to now. Who wanted to be around someone might attack them at any moment? There was no way John was going to be sticking around now. His hand was throbbing from where he had hit his hand but he hardly even noticed, he'd thought in passing that he hoped he had not broken one of his fingers, but beyond that he didn't give it a thought. He flinched as one of the nurses encased his hand in an icepack.

He could feel Mycroft standing next to him and watching over his shoulder and Sherlock wished he would just leave. He knew his brother was trying to be supportive, but the detective found Mycroft's company neither reassuring nor comforting. In fact, all it served to do was stress him out even more since he hated Mycroft—who always seemed so strong and in control—seeing him so weak and dependent on others. He was just about getting used to John seeing him like this, but that was irrelevant now, there was no way John was coming back. Sherlock had given him the perfect excuse to get away. John was a good man, he could help people who would appreciate it more than him and deserved it more than he did. Before, all Sherlock had was his mind, people may not have liked him but they had to listen to him because he was almost always right. He'd had a use and a purpose, but as his transport began to degrade it took his mind with it, and now he was useless and there was no reason John should have to sit there and witness it as it progressed. At least it would mean Moriarty wouldn't be able to use the army doctor as a way of coercing him into doing anything.

Despite being able to rationalise it in his mind, the thought of losing John hurt Sherlock. The thought of living life without his faithful doctor there seemed bleak and more effort than it was worth. He could feel his heart beginning to pound in his chest and his head started to become light as his breathing became more laboured. He was aware of people talking to him but he neither desired nor was capable of listening to them. All he could think of was John leaving and that thought terrified him.

~0~

Dr. Janssen was standing outside and instantly took over from the nurse and guided John over to a chair. The blood was still gushing out of his nose, but thankfully a nurse appeared with arms full of gauze. "John, I need you to tip your head forwards slightly and keep this pressed onto it," he instructed, as he quickly switched from the tissue to the gauze. John did as he was instructed. As much as the punch hurt he didn't really care about the fact that he was in pain. What had sent his mind reeling was the terrified look Sherlock wore after all hell had broken loose. He'd looked petrified, and that is what worried him. His nose would recover; he wasn't so sure about Sherlock.

John winced as a bright light flashed in his eyes and he let out a deep growl of frustration. "I'm not concussed," he said more aggressively than he'd intended, thankfully Dr. Janssen didn't seem to mind.

"I just wanted to check, he did seem to get you at just the wrong angle. I want to get you in for an x-ray to be safe. I don't think there are any dislodged bones or anything, but it's worth having a look." John nodded, he didn't think he needed one either, but if it had been Sherlock who had been punched he would make the man get it checked out. Dr. Janssen sat back and observed John thoughtfully as he kept the gauze clamped firmly over his nose. "What the hell happened in there?" he asked eventually.

In response, John shrugged. "I don't really know," he admitted, his voice coming out thick and nasally. "He was sleeping and he was having a nightmare. I think he woke up and started vomiting and he was crying; I had no idea what to do. I tried to comfort him but he punched me. I think he was hallucinating, or he might have still been dreaming. I don't know," John finally said with a mutter and Dr. Janssen sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I get the impression that he never makes anything easy," Dr, Janssen commented. John snorted and winced as that made his nose throb even more.

"Dr. Janssen, he's having a panic attack and we can't get through to him," a flustered looking nurse said, appearing next to him from nowhere.

"How's his O2 saturation looking?" he asked.

"Acceptable for nowm but it's not going to stay that way for much longer."

"I need to go and talk to him," John mumbled, moving to stand up, but Dr. Janssen put his hand firmly on John's shoulder.

"No, we need to sort your nose first. Give him two milligrams of lorazepam, that should be enough to help him relax, but shouldn't knock him straight out. If it doesn't work, let me know, I'll be down in radiology."

~0~

Lestrade was staring at the mass of paper in front of him. His brain had long since stopped working, and he had been looking blankly at the writing for the past half hour without taking in any of the information. It was a tricky case made even harder by the fact Sherlock was not available to call them all idiots and then reveal some critical piece of information. The DI sighed and rubbed his face vigorously with his hands to try and wake himself up. Just as he stood up to fetch himself a cup of coffee, the phone started ringing with a shrill sound, causing Lestrade to wince as it pierced the still air. He didn't recognise the number calling him; he wanted to ignore it and go to get his coffee but quickly decided he should at least see who it was.

"Hello, this is DI Lestrade," he answered cautiously, feeling slightly uneasy about the whole situation.

"Hello Mr. Lestrade, I'm calling on behalf of Dr. Watson about Mr. Holmes." That statement had Lestrade flying across the room to grab his coat; there was definitely something wrong.

"What's wrong?" he demanded, trying to get the coat on without letting go of the phone.

"Mr. Holmes hit Dr. Watson after he woke from a nightmare; he was unaware of what was going on around him. Dr. Watson needs to go down to get an x-ray, but there is a long wait down there. He wanted someone other than his brother to be there when Mr. Holmes wakes up."

"Yes, of course," Lestrade answered as he slammed the door behind him. He'd taken the files from his office; he could do the work at the hospital while he was waiting for Sherlock to come around. "I'll be there as quick as I can."

Lestrade shoved his mobile into his pocket and practically sprinted down the corridors of New Scotland Yard in his haste to check if his friends were okay. His mad dash was abruptly stopped when a bewildered looking Sally Donovan stepped out in front of him. "Everything okay Sir?" she asked curiously.

"I'm not sure; I need to get to the hospital to check on Sherlock."

"I'll go with you," she stated, nodding her head as she did so. "I've not seen him for a while and I've finished up here."

"No, I don't think that is a good idea. I'm not sure he'll be able to cope with you being there at the moment. No offence," he added as an afterthought and she shrugged to indicate she knew what he meant. "I'll give you a ring when I see him to let you know how he is and if he'll be alright with seeing you." In response she nodded and stepped out of the DI's way so he could continue his sprint down the hall.

~0~

Lestrade opened the door into Sherlock's room slowly and quietly and smiled when he saw Sherlock fast asleep. Seeing him asleep was nice; when the man was awake his face was always slightly contorted with pain as the cancer assaulted his nerve endings. When he was asleep it seemed to ease the aches that plagued him while he was awake. Mycroft was sitting next to the window, phone in hand. When Lestrade walked in the elder Holmes glanced up briefly from whatever he was typing, but he didn't look at all surprised that he was there so he suspected Mycroft's assistant had been watching him.

Lestrade strode as silently as he could to Sherlock's bed, sat down in his usual seat, and took a few moments to properly look at the detective. The only way to describe the way the young man looked was sick, but this was unsurprising considering what the man had been through. Without thinking about it Lestrade stretched out his hand and started running it through Sherlock's brittle hair. He wasn't sure if he was doing it more for his own or Sherlock's benefit, all he knew was that it felt right. For a few minutes he sat there simply doing that until he realised that something simply did not feel right. He looked at his hand, felt his heart drop into his stomach, and he could feel Mycroft's gaze burning into him. A massive clump of Sherlock's curls lay innocently on the pillow and between his fingers. For once, Lestrade had no idea what to do, he found himself stuck there staring and unable to do anything more than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the point where gemstone1234 unfortunately abandoned this story. It leaves so much to be desired, doesn't it? Everything from here on out will be written by me.


	20. Desperate Measures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said at the end of last chapter, this is the transition between gemstone1234's writing and my own. I apologise if there's an abrupt change in style, but I tried my best to keep the overall story arc and theme consistent. I have no idea what gemstone intended for the ending; this is my own interpretation and my own ideas. Another disclaimer: I am not a medical professional of any sort. I'm just a teenage girl with a somewhat obsessive interest in medical hurt/comfort and all those TV shows that real doctors and nurses hate for their melodrama and inaccuracy. Pretty much all of the nitty-gritty medical stuff is the result of thorough research (thank you, internet). I'm sorry if it's not plausible in the real world, but I hope you can just enjoy it for the angst, drama, and emotional breakdowns it causes. Or maybe this just takes place in an AU where hospitals really do work like that. Whatever helps you sleep at night. I hope these next chapters manage to bring some resolution to such a beautiful story. Thank you!

John sat in the waiting room at radiology, still clutching the gauze to his painful nose. He didn't suspect it was broken, but relented to the doctor's insistence he get an x-ray. The circumstances of the injury still puzzled him: why had Sherlock hit him in the first place? What horror could have possibly manifested in his dream that so vividly bled into reality? John had never seen anything terrify Sherlock so much, except maybe Moriarty. If there was one thing Sherlock hated; it was the possibility of being outsmarted. Until Moriarty came along, the only person capable of this had been Mycroft who, being a sibling, didn't really count. John had never seen Sherlock so determined and relentless than when he was facing a crime orchestrated by the Irishman. Was it possible that the feelings of helplessness and weakness brought on by this disease had caused thoughts of Moriarty to resurface? He was the only other thing that had ever beaten Sherlock into submission. If Sherlock was dreaming of Moriarty, John needed to know for sure. Sleeping was supposed to allow Sherlock to rest, to take a break from the suffering he was facing in the real world. Nightmares would only make this terrible situation worse.

"John Watson," the radiologist called. John stepped into the room and sat patiently while they took the x-ray. He didn't see any looks of concern flash over the radiologist's face, so he surmised that it wasn't broken. The radiologist gave him a brief explanation: "It doesn't appear to be broken, you're very lucky. It will probably bruise and hurt quite a bit, but it should heal on its own. Just don't do anything too strenuous."

"Thank you," John said quickly. He didn't want to stay down here any longer than he had to; he wanted to get back to Sherlock as soon as he possibly could. He repeatedly pressed the button on the lift, willing it to move faster. When it finally arrived, he nearly crashed headlong into a nurse exiting the lift in his haste to get inside. He apologised curtly before smashing the button for the oncology ward's floor. The nurse glared at him, but decided that a mere rude and hasty visitor was not worth making a fuss. The lift could not move fast enough for John, and he tapped his foot restlessly as the arrow crawled towards the indicator for his floor.

He walked as fast as possible through the corridors on the oncology ward before reaching the familiar door to Sherlock's room. He peered through the window, finding Mycroft and Lestrade still sitting in the chairs beside the bed. Mycroft was typing away furiously on his phone, and Lestrade appeared to be attempting to finish paperwork for Scotland Yard. Lestrade glanced up from his papers as John entered the room, a sombre look on his face.

"What's wrong?" John immediately asked. He'd seen that look on the DI's face only a few times before, and it never indicated something good. His gaze turned to Sherlock's sleeping form to look for any obvious signs that something had gone wrong, but fortunately found nothing alarming. He looked no sicker than he had before he'd punched John, but even that sight never failed to make John's breath hitch. He didn't think he'd ever fully get used to seeing his friend so gaunt and pale. Every time he entered the room, he secretly hoped it would all be a dream and it would be his Sherlock sitting in that bed and not this diminished and pitiful version. When Lestrade still hadn't answered John's question, he repeated himself with even more urgency: "What's wrong?" Lestrade shook his head forlornly, and extended his clenched fist to John. Confused, John took a step closer to look at whatever was clutched in the DI's hand. It looked vaguely like the fuzz that would sometimes coagulate on Mrs. Hudson's yarn. John let out a choked gasp when he realised what it was.

"Already?" he whispered, attempting to withhold the tears that threatened to pour from his eyes.

"I was stroking his hair, and it-it just fell out," the DI stuttered. John was horrified at how quickly this was all progressing, it seemed like just yesterday the fateful word 'leukaemia' had first been uttered. It pained him greatly to think how Sherlock would react to this: yet another aspect of his life viciously ripped away from him. John knew that Sherlock cared a lot more about his dark curls than most people would suspect. He'd caught him flipping his fingers through it on many occasions to give it that casual, mussed-up look that was so iconic to the detective. This was a whole other type of torture for the poor man to endure. The disease had already robbed him of his health and independence, and now it was coming for his appearance. What it would take next, John feared to imagine.

"Lestrade, you can go now. Get some sleep, you look like you could use it," John said.

"Are you sure? Will you and Mycroft be able to handle him when he wakes up?"

"Yes, we'll be fine. Thanks for coming."

"How's your nose?"

"It'll have a nasty bruise in the morning, but it's not broken, fortunately."

"That's good, mate. I guess I'll get going then." The DI rose from his seat and left, saying goodbye to Sherlock even though everyone knew he wouldn't hear him. John took Lestrade's place next to Mycroft and grabbed Sherlock's hand to rest between his. It was so cold; the detective radiated so little body heat, it was a miracle he wasn't shivering in his sleep. John reminded himself to request an extra blanket from one of the nurses. He wanted to do more to comfort his ailing friend, but feared that any more physical contact would trigger a panic attack like the one he'd had before. More than anything, John wished he could take the detective's place in this ordeal. No one deserved such a fate, and John felt he actually suffered more in this role than he would if they were reversed. He cared for Sherlock so strongly that seeing him in pain was worse than feeling it himself. Unfortunately, not even Mycroft could orchestrate such a feat, so John would have to see this through to the end for better or for worse.

~0~

When Sherlock awoke he immediately regretted it. Whatever poison they'd let drip into his veins had hit him hard; everything hurt. Any pain medication they had him on had absolutely no effect on the deep-set ache. It felt like his blood cells were trying to escape, pushing hard against the inside of his bones and threatening to make them explode with the agony. To make matters worse, he suddenly remembered what he'd done to John and knew that nobody else could provide the same relief and comfort as he did.

He slowly opened his eyes, squinting against the harsh lighting of the hospital room. He had no idea how long he had slept, but it must have been quite a while, as the sun had already set. He turned his head to glance at the chairs beside the bed. One was currently vacant, and the other occupied by John himself, sleeping with his head drooped onto his chest. What? John had come back? After what Sherlock had done to him? Why would he stay? Sherlock felt instantly guilty when he saw that John's nose had already turned an alarming shade of deep purple. He tried to suppress a moan of misery, but the physical pain and mental anguish of knowing he'd hurt John was simply too much to override.

Ever the keen doctor, John's eyes snapped open upon hearing someone in pain. "How are you?" he asked cautiously. Why did people ask such obvious questions? It annoyed Sherlock to no end how often he was asked that question. His outward appearance should make it quite clear how he was feeling: like crap. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and John seemed to get the message. Even that small contraction of his facial muscles exacerbated the omnipresent ache, and he clenched his eyes shut to force the pain down. "Right, shouldn't have to ask," John corrected.

"How 'bout you?" Sherlock inquired without opening his eyes.

"Me? I'm fine. You of all people needn't concern yourself with others' well-being. You never cared how anyone else felt before all this happened, why did you start asking now?" Sherlock abhorred the way John referred to his illness as 'all this.' It was intended to downplay the severity of it, but there was no point in denying that leukaemia had become Sherlock's entire identity. Everything he did or said nowadays, and anything other people did for him was because of this wretched disease.

"Your nose?" Sherlock clarified. "I punched you in the face."

"It's not broken, just bruised. I'll be fine."

"Why are you still here?"

"Why would I have left?"

"I punched you in the face. Doesn't that turn most people away?"

"Sherlock, nothing you could ever do would turn me away. It's not your fault I got punched in the face, you were hallucinating. Or dreaming. We're still not sure, but it definitely wasn't your fault."

"Then whose fault was it? I lashed out at you, not someone else."

"Sherlock, that wasn't the real you. I know you'll hate hearing this, but you're not yourself anymore. The Sherlock I know and the Sherlock in front of me right now are not the same man. I'm not going anywhere until I get my Sherlock back." Even though he'd heard it from John's own mouth, Sherlock still couldn't fully believe it. John wasn't going to abandon him. He'd punched the doctor in the face, and even that wasn't enough to drive him away. Sherlock couldn't help but smile to himself, but it turned into more of a grimace as the pain surged. He clenched his good hand into a tight fist, his fingers digging mercilessly into the palm of his hand. It barely registered compared to the all-consuming ache in the rest of his body. John announced he was going to get a nurse to turn up his pain medication, and hurried out of the room before Sherlock could protest. Even if he had time, Sherlock didn't think he could muster the energy to argue, there was no room in his brain for anything other than the fiery excruciation. Swirls of colour danced across the back of his eyelids, brightening with each wheezing breath he choked in. By the time John returned with a nurse, he could feel the tendrils of unconsciousness grasping at his thoughts. He barely registered the cool rush of medicine entering his bloodstream as he re-entered the bliss of sleep.

~0~

John was alarmed. There was no other way to describe it: his ears were ringing with the blaring of phantom sirens. Something was wrong: indubitably, unquestionably wrong. He remembered Dr. Harrison saying that this new treatment had more severe side effects, but this was unacceptable. Sherlock had been awake all of five minutes before he was overwhelmed by some internal agony. This could not be allowed to continue; there had to be some other way to eradicate the leukaemia cells in his central nervous system. In the morning, he'd have to ask Dr. Harrison to reconsider the treatment course. Sherlock's body could not handle another round of that toxic concoction. With nothing left to ponder, John sat himself down in the uncomfortable hospital chair. He didn't expect to fall asleep, but he was apparently more exhausted than he thought and fell asleep in mere minutes.

John awoke at about seven in the morning, his back aching from a night spent sitting in that chair. He glanced at the bed and was relieved to see that Sherlock was still fast asleep, but his face was still somewhat twisted in discomfort. John was sickened to think of a pain so severe it could penetrate slumber; his friend's suffering had to be immense. He recalled the pain of his shoulder wound long ago, attempted to multiply its intensity and shivered at the idea. He heard a short rap on the door, and invited whoever it was to enter.

"How are things in here?" Dr. Janssen asked. He was trailed by Dr. Harrison, who carried yet more bags of poison.

"Get those out of here," John growled, gesturing to Dr. Harrison's cargo.

"Dr. Watson, is something the matter?"

"Yes. Those are too much, he can't take it. Just a little while ago, he literally passed out from the pain. No way am I letting you pump any more of that into his system."

"But Dr. Watson," interjected Dr. Harrison. "We can ease his pain with other medication, but these will kill the cells in his spine that made him lose the use of his arm; they'll help eliminate the root of the problem."

"Find. Something. Else," John grunted through gritted teeth. Why she was so intent on torturing Sherlock, John had no idea, but he wouldn't stand for it.

"When he wakes again, we'll have to do another lumbar puncture to see if the drug managed to make a dent in the cancer in his spinal fluid," Dr. Janssen explained, but his comment fell on deaf ears. John couldn't process anything except how much he wanted this to end—needed this to end. The constant stress of wondering what would happen next was wearing him down, and he could only imagine what it was doing to Sherlock. He could see the physical results, but he was allowed only a glimpse into the detective's mental state. But more than anything, John feared it would all be in vain. That all this suffering would finally end with the death of Sherlock Holmes.

~0~

As much as Dr. Janssen regretted it, he was eventually forced to wake the ailing detective. They couldn't wait any longer to recheck his spinal fluid and they needed to determine if the drug had any effect in order to decide the next course of action, and he didn't show any signs of waking on his own anytime soon. He tried calling his name, but Sherlock was so far gone, his voice wouldn't rouse him. He gently shook him by the shoulder, and winced at the look of anguish that came over the man's face at being touched.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid you need to wake up." All he got as a response was a pained grunt. "Mr. Holmes, if you aren't awake enough to follow my instructions, I'll have to manoeuvre you myself and I know you won't like that." Without opening his eyes, Sherlock nodded slightly, which Dr. Janssen took as acknowledgement that he would oblige. He told Sherlock to curl up on his side for the lumbar puncture. His vertebrae seemed to protrude even farther from his skin, if that were even possible. If they couldn't get him to stomach some food soon, they'd have no choice but to put him on a feeding tube. He'd starve to death before the cancer even got a chance. Sherlock barely flinched at the needle entering his skin; he must be so used to them by now. What a terrible thing to become accustomed to.

Dr. Janssen took the vial of spinal fluid down to the lab, and told them to put a rush on it. The sooner they could find another medication, the better. Sherlock could potentially lose the use of another limb if the cancer was allowed to assault his nerves much longer.

The pathologists at the lab surprised him, and the results were ready far sooner than he'd ever gotten them before. He wondered if the look on his face portrayed his involvement in this case, and the direness of the situation. He glanced at the workup and his face fell: absolutely no decrease. The drug hadn't knocked out a single leukaemia cell from his spinal fluid. It was designed to be able to breach the blood-brain barrier, but evidently it hadn't. It had only managed to wreak havoc on the rest of the poor man's already ravaged body. There was only one option left that had any chance of working, but he had a feeling its drastic nature would elicit a lot of conflict.

~0~

Mycroft had returned after dealing with a 'matter of national security.' John suspected that was his excuse to bail himself out of any uncomfortable situation. As much as he appeared to hate his little brother, John could tell that he took absolutely no pleasure in seeing him suffer, especially like this, when it was no fault of his own. He nodded curtly to John before entering the room and taking a seat in the hospital chair. His eyes fell on Sherlock's sleeping form and John detected unquestionable pity in those usually intimidating blue eyes. Mycroft's defences were crumbling almost as much as Sherlock's; apparently it took inhuman levels of stress for the Holmes boys to let their guards down.

A brief knock at the door announced the arrival of Dr. Janssen. John immediately saw the crisis in the deep frown lines on his face, and promptly asked, "What did you find?"

"Nothing good, I'm afraid," he sighed. "The new drug had no effect."

"None? All that for nothing?"

"I'm sorry. This medication is designed to breach the blood-brain barrier, but for whatever reason it failed to do so. None of it reached the spinal fluid." Of course, John thought. Leave it to Sherlock for his brain to be unreachable from anywhere else in his body. His insistence on separating his brain from his 'transport' had come to fruition, but in the worst way possible.

"Is there any other approach we could take?" Mycroft, ever focused on the situation at hand, asked.

"Yes, that's what I came in here to talk about. Mr. Holmes will probably want to be awake for this, it's a big decision to make," Dr. Janssen explained. Mycroft moved to wake his younger brother, and John was amazed at the gentleness in his tone and touch. Mycroft always seemed so steely, it was almost paradoxical to see him caress anything, especially another human being. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, and he tried to wrench himself away from Mycroft, but found he didn't have the strength. John's heart sank at what the brilliant man had been reduced to. "Since we couldn't reach the spinal fluid through the blood-brain barrier, the only thing that might stand a chance is going directly into the spinal fluid."

"What do you mean?" John asked. He'd never heard of chemo being administered through the spine, and wondered what the doctor was suggesting.

"There's a device called an Ommaya reservoir that would allow us to infuse the drugs exactly where they need to be," he explained.

"How does it work?"

"That's the tricky part. It's implanted under the scalp, and a catheter is threaded into one of the ventricles of the brain."

"What would that entail?" Mycroft asked icily. He seemed rattled, if that were even possible, by the suggestion.

"It's a relatively simple surgery, it usually takes about an hour—"

"Wait—brain surgery?" Sherlock interjected. Those were the first words he'd spoken in nearly a day, and the hoarseness in his voice made his words almost unintelligible. Despite this, everyone else in the room was obviously thinking the exact same thing.

"Not quite. The catheter goes through the brain into a pocket of cerebrospinal fluid, but nothing is done to the brain itself."

"Regardless, are there risks?" asked Mycroft, taking the words out of everyone's mouth.

"Every surgical procedure comes with risks, but the odds of complications are quite low. Our surgeons are very experienced."

"And what are these complications?"

"There is a small chance of cognitive deficiency, but when I say small, I mean extremely so."

"A small chance is still a chance, isn't it?" Mycroft stated.

"Yes, but I think given the situation, that risk is very worth the benefits this procedure would provide. It'd give us a direct route to killing the cancer cells in the spinal fluid."

"Balance of probability," John interjected without thinking. He'd used Mycroft's favourite phrase for scolding his brother for poor deducing skills. When it came to medicine, John was the expert, and he felt it necessary to ensure the British government didn't completely take over the decision. Mycroft looked astonished that his own words had been turned against him, but John stared him down until he relented.

"I guess the decision falls to you, Sherlock," he said, addressing his little brother. Sherlock seemed utterly lost, his eyes flitting between Mycroft and Dr. Janssen before settling on John. Those piercing, ice-blue eyes begged John to help, to tell him what to do and make it all better. As much as John wished he could fix it all with a snap of his fingers, the best he could do was offer his advice.

"Sherlock, you should do it," said John unhesitatingly. He paled at the pure trust behind Sherlock's gaze as he nodded assent for Dr. Janssen without glancing away from John for even a second. Should the worst happen, John knew both Mycroft and Sherlock would automatically assign all the blame to him. But he was confident that the worst wouldn't happen—couldn't happen—because there's no way the universe could be that cruel. It had already thrown Sherlock to Hell, or whatever was below that, ripped him apart like an excited dog with a chew toy, and continued to play with the remains. Every so often, the universe would get hungry and swallow one of those pieces, and another bit of the brilliant detective would disappear. John hadn't seen him really smile in over a week; the ability to experience joy had been the first piece to vanish into the abyss. He'd give anything to see that smile, watch the skin around his eyes crinkle up with glee when Lestrade brought an interesting case. Sherlock's excitement was infectious, and John wished he could again catch that spell, even if it meant that some poor shmuck had been murdered.

"Is that a yes?" Dr. Janssen asked, and Sherlock nodded again, slightly more vigorously. "Okay, then. I'll alert the neurology team. Why don't you get some more rest?"

"Wait," Sherlock insisted. Dr. Janssen paused at the door and turned around to listen.

"Are they going to shave my head?" Sherlock asked.

"No, they'll only need to shave a small portion to access the scalp."

"Tell them to take it all."

"Why? It's not necessary."

"I'd much rather it be gone now than wake up one day to find the rest of it scattered about my head like shrapnel."

"Okay, I'll leave a note. Are you sure about this?"

"Yes. Absolutely certain."


	21. Mortality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing I noticed gemstone1234 did a few times was rewrite the same scene from the perspective of another character, so I tried my hand at that technique here in this chapter. So, if you notice that some dialogue looks familiar, you're not going crazy. Just wanted to clarify that in case anybody gets confused. Thanks, and enjoy chapter 21!

John and Mycroft sat in the waiting room of the hospital, anxiously awaiting the moment when they would be allowed back into Sherlock's room. The doctors had taken him away just over an hour ago, and a hint of fear and regret stabbed into John's gut the moment they disappeared behind the doors to the operating theatre.

As much as he tried to repress the thoughts of what must be happening to his best friend right now, John couldn't help but visualize them slicing into the skull that contained that magnificent brain. He could almost hear the shrill whine of a bone drill, even though the rational side of him knew he was much too far away. However, this was not the rational side of John Watson; this was the primordial, panic-stricken side. Every doubt he'd ever had about modern medicine was magnified tenfold. Anything he'd learned about anaesthetic complications from his brief surgery rotation in medical school was resurfacing in his mind, only twisted horrifically into nightmarish concepts.

Eventually, John felt he needed to do something—anything—to quell some of his nervous energy. He'd been constantly wringing his hands in a very Sherlockian manner, but this was no longer sufficient. He rose from the uncomfortable chair and began to pace frantically. He didn't care that every eye in the room was on him, he needed to move. Maybe if he walked fast enough, he could outrun all the bad thoughts.

Mycroft, on the other hand, had a very different method of worrying. Whenever he was stressed (which was often, between his job and his brother) he retreated inside himself. Physical exertion never eased his nerves; it was a mental workout he craved to release tension. He glanced at the old woman seated to his right. Husband had a heart attack, waiting for news. Secretly hoping he doesn't make it so she can get the life insurance money. He proceeded to the man on her right. Expectant father. It's their fifth child, four girls so far and he desperately wants a son to whom he can hand down his carpentry business. His attention was then drawn to John, who had begun walking back and forth across five feet of space in front of his chair. It was a shock he wasn't getting dizzy turning around so often. Mycroft glanced at the man's face, but paused. He felt that deducing John was somehow invading his privacy. He's never had such reservations before, but John's relation to his brother made him… different, not to mention the current situation forcing Mycroft's soft side to make an appearance. Mycroft had never witnessed devotion like that the doctor showed for his brother. It was no surprise people always assumed they were a couple; Mycroft almost believed it himself, even though he knew Sherlock would never go for any sort of relationship, and John insisted he was straight. They had an almost inexplicable connection, not romantic, but still far deeper and more intense than friendship.

He was still deep in thought when a surgeon emerged from the forbidding, double-swing doors of the operating theatre. Immediately wrenched from his reverie, he coughed loudly to alert John to the new arrival.

"Well, it's done," the surgeon announced.

"And…?" John inquired.

"Couldn't have gone better. They should be able to start using it tomorrow." Mycroft could have punched the man for the smug smile he flashed at them. Sure, you're a great surgeon, the procedure was a success, but how dare you suggest that happiness be involved? This is just another foreign object you've inserted into my brother to further deface him.

John released a breath he didn't realise he was holding. He'd been so worried that the detective would become one of those statistics: only two percent report any sort of complication. It would have been just like him to set himself apart from the majority. He started toward the familiar route to Sherlock's room when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Mycroft asked John, eyebrows raised. John was astonished that the usually stoic man was showing concern for his well-being. He'd never seen Mycroft do anything that demonstrated care for another person except for Sherlock. He felt he might burst into tears if he opened his mouth, so he nodded instead. "If you insist."

John practically raced down the hallways to return to his friend's side. He almost bowled over several nurses—even an ambulatory patient—in his haste. He was in withdrawal, he needed to see Sherlock and judge his condition for himself. He unceremoniously burst into the room, flinging the door open. The sight that met his eyes was unbelievable. John tasted bile rising in his throat and raced back into the hall towards the nearest bathroom. He lost count of how many times he vomited, but he was entirely drained when the heaving finally ceased. He collapsed against the wall and sank to the floor, hugging his legs to his chest like he feared they would fly away. He dug his face into his knees, ignoring the pain it caused as his kneecaps dug into his eyes. He thought he would start sobbing, but no tears would come. Instead, he rocked back and forth, hoping the motion would calm him somehow.

After a good ten minutes, he took a deep breath and forced himself to get back up. He would never be able to help Sherlock in this state: he was supposed to be the strong one in this situation. If he fell apart, Sherlock wouldn't stand a chance. He had witnessed firsthand how much the detective relied on him in his current predicament, and he vowed to himself that he would always be there for him. Steeling himself, he returned to the room; he took care to enter more slowly this time so as not to startle himself again.

As John crossed the threshold into the room, everything went dark. At first he was confused, but then he realised that he had subconsciously closed his eyes upon entering to prevent himself from seeing Sherlock. He forced them open and took in the scene before him. Mycroft, evidently, hadn't had as drastic a reaction as John, and was sitting in his usual chair typing away as always. Everything about his demeanour was so—Mycroft. Sherlock, however, looked as much unlike himself as one could imagine. As much as he had looked like a skeleton before, it was only emphasized by the now clear sheen of his scalp. The faded bruising from his earlier fall had been partially hidden before, but was now revealed to extend almost to the crown of his head. His hair had also hidden a portion of the gauntness in his head and face, but without it, he was practically indistinguishable from the skull that sat on their mantelpiece.

John's eyes inadvertently drifted to the bandages on top of his head where he could make out the small lump protruding from his skull. That would still be there even when this whole ordeal was over, a permanent reminder of this torture. That was if this ordeal ever ended.

"John, are you alright?" Mycroft asked, glancing up from whatever his phone contained that was so important.

"I—I…"John stuttered, finding he couldn't get the words out. Even if he did know what to say, he felt like the connection between his brain and his mouth had been severed.

"If you need to take a break, I'll understand. And I'm sure he would too," Mycroft said, gesturing to Sherlock. John simply shook his head and took the empty seat next to Mycroft. Something about the way Mycroft referred to Sherlock as if he wasn't here bothered John. It almost sounded like the way one would talk about someone who was deceased. Had Mycroft given up? Did he continue to sit here solely because of some distorted sense of duty to his little brother? Was he waiting to say goodbye?

John shook his head to rid himself of these terrible thoughts. He refused to allow his own mind to drag him into depression. He refocused and instead forced his thoughts to wander to what he referred to as life B.S: before Sherlock. It was not a mechanism of planning for a future without his best friend, it was just that those were the only memories that didn't cause him pain in light of the current situation.

~0~

The first thing Sherlock was aware of upon waking was the cold. If he had the energy, he'd be shivering, but he had barely enough strength to sustain consciousness. Hospitals were always chilly, but he felt like his blood had been replaced with ice water. For all he knew, it had; he had absolutely no control over what happened to his body anymore. Somebody he'd never met had just sliced into his skull, and he was just supposed to sit back and let it happen.

If John hadn't suggested he have the surgery, there was no way he would have done it. Even Mycroft's cold, hard reasoning couldn't have convinced him. Though he hadn't admitted it to anyone, he'd been terrified up to the very last second before he succumbed to the anaesthesia. He still was terrified: now that this thing was in, they were eventually going to use it, and they hadn't yet explained to him what that would be like. He had a sneaking suspicion it would involve stabbing a needle into his head, but he didn't want to think too deeply about that. He felt the tendrils of sleep clawing at the back of his mind, and he allowed them to take him back under once again, to take him away from this painful reality.

John didn't notice that Sherlock woke up for a few brief minutes, since he didn't open his eyes or even slightly stir. John himself was on the verge of falling asleep when Dr. Janssen popped his head in the room to check on things.

"Everything going well?" he asked, glancing at the vitals monitor and scribbling on his clipboard.

"I guess so," John replied. "I don't think he's woken up, is that normal?"

"Well, usually it doesn't take this long, but given his condition, I wouldn't be too concerned. The sedative has probably worn off and he's just asleep of his own accord." Dr. Janssen finished whatever he was doing and promptly left the room. John tried not to fall asleep—he wanted to be there should Sherlock awaken—but his exhaustion was too much to contend with. His head lolled against his chest and he drifted off.

Several hours later, he awoke with a terrible crick in his neck from the awkward position. He glanced over to the bed and almost jumped out of his seat when he found two piercing blue eyes staring at him.

"You really shouldn't fall asleep like that," Sherlock stated bluntly.

"It's better than the floor," John replied, trying to massage the ache out with his hand.

"You have a bed."

"I know I do, but I can't just throw it in my pocket and bring it here, can I?" John was having a hard time looking his friend in the eye. His eyes were right between his cheekbones which protruded so drastically and right beneath his bald head. Sherlock seemed to notice that John wasn't meeting his gaze, and turned to face the opposite wall, embarrassed.

"You're missing my point entirely."

"No, I don't think I am. I simply won't entertain the suggestion of leaving you here alone."

"John, this is a fully staffed hospital. I can't be alone even if I want to be."

"You know what I mean! I don't want you to be without a friend."

"John, even I can tell that this is paining you. I don't need a babysitter twenty-four seven, you're more than welcome to go home and rest whenever you like."

"Sherlock, as much as I want to take you up on it, I can't get any rest at home. Whenever I'm not in this room, I fear something will happen and I won't be there until it's too late. That feeling tends to be a hindrance to sleep." Sherlock didn't respond to that comment, but John saw his eyes cloud over and his shoulders droop just a little bit more. John could see that Sherlock now believed he was a burden, and instantly despised himself for saying what he'd just said. Sherlock hated being tied down to anyone, and apparently hated being a wet blanket even more than dealing with one. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to get upset, I just needed to explain why I need to be here with you."

"So you can avoid the guilt of not being here to witness my death?"

"Sherlock, you're not going to die," John said, and immediately regretted it. He'd said that statement with about as much confidence as he felt: next to none. It didn't take the most observant man in the world to figure out that John was worried Sherlock would die.

"That's a lie," he growled.

"Sherlock, it wasn't a lie. It's still early; we don't know one way or another how this is going to end. If you resign yourself to mortality now, you're hopeless."

"I resigned myself to mortality long before I was even diagnosed. All people die, John. It's one of the few things in life that is entirely inevitable."

"Yes, but not from this. You don't have to die from this. I'm begging you not to die from this," John choked on the last sentence. Sherlock didn't respond immediately, and for a moment John feared he'd slipped into one of his moods. But he turned his fiery gaze to John and said with as much conviction as his weak body could muster: "I'll try."

~0~

Sherlock had no clue as to the time of day when he awoke for the second time. He was only aware of two things: he was still freezing cold, and John was there. The doctor was asleep in a chair, his head resting against his chest, which had to be terrible for his neck. Sherlock knew he'd be incredibly uncomfortable when he woke up, and immediately felt guilty for giving him reason to stay here instead of going home to get some sleep. Even though John had already told him several times, he still could not comprehend why he stuck around this long. Staying here with him only caused John grief and pain, and Sherlock wanted desperately to alleviate that, if he only knew how. John refused to move on with his life, even though he'd certainly be happier without a sick Sherlock to hold him back. As much as he knew that John would be better off if he left him behind, a part of Sherlock was elated that he had a friend to rely on. John had already proven time and time again that there wasn't anything he wouldn't do to support his friend, but he seemed determined to outdo himself. If Sherlock imagined their roles reversed, he could not picture himself sticking around because the pressure would be too much. He didn't think he could sit and watch John suffer while knowing there was nothing he could do about it; it was hard enough watching him struggle with worry over Sherlock's condition. Sherlock could think of only two ways John's anguish could possibly end: Sherlock would get better and they'd eventually return to their normal lives, or Sherlock would die. John would grieve for him—that much was certain—but he'd be forced to move on at some point. Neither of these outcomes was incredibly enticing. On the one hand, he was in for a long road of misery ahead if he continued to try and fight this. However, ending it now would cause John and maybe even some other people great sorrow, and Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted to do that.

Sherlock didn't notice he'd been staring intently at John this entire time until the doctor awoke and startled. He could already tell John's neck was bothering him from the way he held his head.

"You really shouldn't fall asleep like that," Sherlock said.

"It's better than the floor," John replied.

"You have a bed."

"I know I do, but I can't just throw it in my pocket and bring it here, can I?" Sherlock noticed the anxiety building in his friend's voice, his reluctance to focus on his face the way people normally did when they conversed. At first he couldn't figure out why John wouldn't meet his eye, and then he remembered how awful he must look now that the doctors had taken his hair. He quickly turned away so John couldn't see him blush with humiliation.

"You're missing my point entirely."

"No, I don't think I am. I simply won't entertain the suggestion of leaving you here alone."

"John, this is a fully staffed hospital. I can't be alone even if I want to be."

"You know what I mean! I don't want you to be without a friend."

"John, even I can tell that this is paining you. I don't need a babysitter twenty-four seven, you're more than welcome to go home and rest whenever you like."

"Sherlock, as much as I want to take you up on it, I can't get any rest at home. Whenever I'm not in this room, I fear something will happen and I won't be there until it's too late. That feeling tends to be a hindrance to sleep." That comment stung far more than it should have, and Sherlock felt his eyes glaze over with tears. He was correct in his assumption: he was the only reason John was currently so miserable. But the doctor soon amended his previous statement, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to get upset, I just needed to explain why I need to be here with you."

"So you can avoid the guilt of not being here to witness my death?"

"Sherlock, you're not going to die," John said. Sherlock almost huffed at the untruth of that statement. Normally, he would respond by explaining how all lives end eventually and that immortality was a construct of the feeble mind too afraid to accept fate, but something told him that would upset John. Instead, he decided to simply scoff: "That's a lie."

"Sherlock, it wasn't a lie. It's still early; we don't know one way or another how this is going to end. If you resign yourself to mortality now, you're hopeless."

"I resigned myself to mortality long before I was even diagnosed. All people die, John. It's one of the few things in life that is entirely inevitable."

"Yes, but not from this. You don't have to die from this. I'm begging you not to die from this." Sherlock could hear the strained emotion behind John's voice as he croaked out that request, and he realised that he couldn't abandon John. No amount of enticement from the promise of a painless afterlife would convince him to give up the fight, because there was no way he'd leave John that way. He'd always pictured them going up in flames together after stopping a particularly ruthless criminal, but never would he ever have predicted that a disease would rip them apart, that their story would end when Sherlock's transport betrayed him and royally screwed itself up. From that moment, he vowed that he would never give up, because he owed it to John Watson. He owed him his absolute best efforts to survive to solve another crime. With that promise in mind, he looked John straight in the eye and swore to him: "I'll try."


	22. Progress

The next day, Dr. Harrison and Dr. Janssen came in at seven o'clock sharp to begin the new treatment regimen. John watched resignedly as Dr. Harrison produced another bag of fluid and a needle.

"The first time won't be pleasant," she announced curtly. John watched Sherlock's eyes follow her around the room as she set up, but failed to follow her hands as she reached on top of his head. He flinched away from her touch, and she glared at him. "If you don't hold still, this will be a whole lot harder."

John held his breath as she repeatedly pressed down on the bump beneath his scalp. He had no idea how long doctors usually allowed for the incision to heal before using the reservoir, but in his medical opinion the skin looked way too tender to withstand that kind of pressure. The C-shaped incision was still red and angry-looking, and he could count the dark stitches that stood out against his pale skin. Dr. Harrison prepared a small needle and stuck it into the bump. Sherlock eyes widened in alarm as he felt it enter and he struggled not to squirm. Dr. Harrison connected the needle to the bag of medicine and left it there. She announced that she'd be back in about ten minutes to remove it and vehemently instructed Sherlock not to touch it.

It was the most unnatural sight John had ever seen: a drip coming out of someone's head. Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable with it as well, and he kept glancing upward as if he could see the top of his head if he strained enough. John couldn't help but picture the poisonous cocktail of drugs slowly seeping through his friend's brain and down his spinal cord.

"Does it hurt?" John asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Not really. It just feels weird," Sherlock replied. John tried to think of something to alleviate the awkward silence, but nothing came to mind. They just sat there, John trying—and failing—to avoid staring at Sherlock. He knew it was rude, but he honestly couldn't draw his gaze away. He was almost relieved at the reappearance of Dr. Harrison. Without hesitation or conversation, she removed the needle and again pressed on the reservoir. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut in discomfort, and John felt he had to say something.

"Is the pushing really necessary?"

"Yes," Dr. Harrison replied curtly. "It mixes the medication with his spinal fluid."

"Could you be more gentle? You're hurting him."

"I'm sorry, but it has to be done. But that's it for today." With that, she slapped a small bandage on the puncture site and left the room. Everything was quiet for another ten minutes, but then the side effects of the drug began to kick in. If Sherlock had eaten anything it would have all come back up, but since he hadn't, the nausea just left him retching powerfully. John rubbed his back to comfort him as he dry heaved, and he could feel every protrusion of his vertebrae like the ridges on a stegosaurus. When the heaves finally ceased, Sherlock collapsed against his pillow, panting with exhaustion.

"Can I get you anything?" John asked.

"Cold," Sherlock moaned, drawing the sheet even tighter around himself.

"Okay, I'll talk to the nurses and see if they can bring you another blanket. Anything else?" Sherlock shook his head meekly. John could tell he had a headache by the tightness around his eyes, but decided against arguing with him. Fortunately, he soon fell asleep and John hoped unconsciousness would shield him from most of the pain.

John was about to go find a nurse to request a blanket when he noticed Lestrade approaching the room. He'd been so caught up in the events of the past twelve hours that he'd totally forgotten to tell the DI what was going on. John felt instantly guilty; he knew how much Lestrade cared about Sherlock and how much this drastic change would rattle him.

"Hi Greg," greeted John.

"Hey John. Sorry I haven't been here in a while, things have been crazy at the office. We don't have Sherlock to solve all the tough crimes anymore, so we're kind of swamped."

"No problem, I understand."

"How is he?"

"Well, the doctors decided on a new approach," John began, and he tried not to wince as he saw Lestrade's expression morph into one of sheer horror as he caught his first glimpse of Sherlock. He'd seen the first of Sherlock's hair begin to fall out, but nobody had yet told him the doctors had shaved it. "They implanted a device in his head to put medicine directly into his spinal fluid. Sherlock himself requested they shave his entire head."

"Oh, okay. I guess that's better than waiting for it to fall out. Have they started this new treatment yet?"

"He just had his first dose about half an hour ago. It didn't really sit well."

"What happened?"

"Well, it just made him really nauseous. Of course, since he hasn't eaten anything in way too long, he can't bring anything up. He didn't complain, though, just said he was cold."

"Can chemo make you cold?"

"I think it can. And it doesn't help that he's got absolutely no fat left to insulate him. I was about to ask for another blanket when you showed up."

Lestrade's phone buzzed, and he grunted at what John assumed to be a summons back to work. He apologised for having to leave so soon and hurried out. John wondered sadly if there was an interesting murder and if Sherlock would have enjoyed solving it.

~0~

Lestrade hated his job for being so demanding, but he had an idea that he needed to discuss with Anderson. Throughout the entire drive back to Scotland Yard, he thought of the poor detective and the horror he was being forced to endure. Sure, he'd never been the nicest of people, but since John showed up he'd really become an incredible person, and he definitely didn't deserve this. It pained Lestrade to see his brilliance contained by a body that was attacking itself from the inside out. It was a terrible irony that the man who never bothered to take care of himself would be subdued by a disease that had struck him entirely due to wretched luck. Of all things that could have spelled trouble for the great detective, it had to be something as mundane as leukaemia.

When Lestrade arrived back at the office, he immediately set off in search of Anderson. He needed a favour from the forensic specialist, and the sooner it got done the better. He found him sifting through old case files and humming to himself.

"Anderson, just the man I wanted to see," announced Lestrade. Anderson looked up from whatever file he was glancing through with a puzzled look on his face.

"What do you want?" he asked suspiciously. Lestrade knew he rarely addressed Anderson that way, but felt slightly offended that he instantly assumed it was a threat.

"I need you to do something for me. Do you have access to all the files on solved cases?"

"Of course I do. What a stupid question." Lestrade decided it wasn't worth scolding Anderson for his rudeness, and continued explaining what he needed accomplished.

"You still have all the original photos of the crime scenes and everything?"

"Yes, we keep all that stuff. Protocol," he sighed, clearly annoyed.

"Perfect. I need you to send me a copy of any photos from cases that Sherlock solved."

"Why? What does he want with them? Is he so desperate for something to do he's going to relive cases he's already solved?"

"Anderson, I am this close to strangling you," Lestrade growled. He was absolutely fed up with the man's insolence when it came to Sherlock. "You continue to insult Sherlock Holmes when you're perfectly aware of the current situation! The man is fighting for his life for Christ's sake, and you still talk about him as if he's a psychopath making it up for attention!"

"I'm sorry, Detective Inspector. Old habits die hard, I guess. I'll get you the photos," Anderson said, and he scrambled away. Lestrade was glad he'd excused himself, because he didn't trust himself not to murder the idiot on the spot. He rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration and walked back to his own office to work on the current case. It was a particularly nasty homicide, and it pained him to think about how much Sherlock would have loved it.

~0~

The next few days gave rise to a monotonous routine. Sherlock was given his chemo in the morning, and the curt manner with which Dr. Harrison treated him still revolted John to no end. He rode out the worst of the side effects for the next several hours in intervals of sleeping and waking. Nurses brought him meals as they had every day since he arrived, but he refused to even touch them. John was getting really concerned for the detective's weight; the cast on his arm actually seemed to be looser than it had been when they'd put it on.

On the bright side, the chemo in his spinal fluid seemed to be working, as he regained some movement and sensation in his bad arm. The bruising on his face and the rest of his body had faded to greenish-purple, and he hadn't had any more adventures to give himself new ones. After their discussion earlier, Sherlock seemed to understand that he was compromised, and now acted accordingly. Of course, he was still utterly miserable. John couldn't imagine feeling constantly nauseous and sick for this long. He'd had the flu as a child for just over a week, and thought that was the worst one could possibly feel, but being this desperately unwell for so long had to be absolute torture.

It was nearly noon, and Sherlock was zonked from a particularly violent bout of retching. John was in his usual chair mindlessly reading a book he didn't understand one bit. Whenever he decided to pick it up, his exhaustion prevented him from comprehending any of the words on the page. He had just read the same sentence for probably the fifth time when Dr. Janssen entered the room. John glanced up and immediately frowned upon seeing the serious expression etched on his face. He knew from experience that any doctor bearing that look had nothing good to say.

"What's the matter?" John questioned, his concern piqued.

"Don't worry, it's nothing life-threatening," Dr. Janssen reassured. "I know it never seems good when a doctor tells you he wants to talk to you, but I promise that everything is going fine. His most recent blood count was actually very promising. However, as I'm sure you've noticed, his weight is becoming a severe concern."

"Well, he hasn't eaten a morsel in over a week. It's a struggle just to convince him to drink water."

"Yes, yes, I'm aware of the issue. It's perfectly understandable for him to refuse food. He'd probably just throw it back up anyway and be back to square one. But, he needs nutrients and hydration somehow, and what we've been giving him through the IV is simply not enough at this point."

"So, what are you suggesting?"

"We may have to give him a feeding tube."

"Why are you telling me this now? Shouldn't you tell Sherlock?"

"Yes, Sherlock should definitely be told. He has every right to refuse it if he so pleases, but I thought this information would sit with him a little better if he heard it from you instead of me or another doctor." John was surprised—and a little daunted—that the doctor would entrust him with such an important responsibility. With Sherlock, it would have to be presented perfectly to avoid shutting him down. John would be lucky if the first mention of his weight didn't make him immediately close himself off. The man would rather starve slowly than admit he needed to pack on some pounds.

"Okay, I will do my best. I can't promise that it will work; he's quite sensitive about this sort of thing."

"I understand. Take your time, there's no rush. Let me know if you get an answer out of him." Dr. Janssen glanced at the vitals monitor, as was his habit when leaving any patient's room, and promptly left. John contemplated the best strategy for convincing Sherlock to go through with his. He would be incredibly reluctant; a tube shoved down his nose would be another indecency for him to endure. If the catheter experience was anything to go by, this would not be easy. But Sherlock had solemnly sworn to John that he would try to fight through this, and John was not afraid to remind of him of that promise should he say no. John could argue that he would die if he didn't accept the tube and, while that wasn't a lie, it surely wasn't that urgent. He could survive quite a while without food, but it was terribly unhealthy especially with the war his body was currently engaged in. Decent feeding might increase his energy and help him feel better.

Sherlock slept for another two hours, and John read the same chapter of his book three times without absorbing any of it. When he awoke, he seemed stronger than he had the past few days. The chemotherapy was making its mark. He yawned massively, which forced his cheekbones to protrude so far John feared they'd break through his pale skin. This image reinforced his courage, and he took a deep breath before broaching the topic.

"You look better. How are you feeling?" John asked. Best ease into it slowly so as not to startle him.

"Actually quite well, given the circumstances. I feel better than I have in days," he replied. "Still freezing, though. Are they currently testing the power of their air conditioning system?

"That's fantastic. Maybe you'd be up for eating something?"

"Best not push it." John sighed internally. It was worth a shot, but he should have known the detective would decline.

"Well, you might want to reconsider. Dr. Janssen was in here earlier when you were asleep, and he said your lack of intake was becoming dangerous."

"Tell him that intake isn't a problem, it's keeping it down. Anything I eat will just come back up with the next round of chemo."

"He agrees with you, which is why he recommends a method of bypassing your stomach entirely so you can't vomit it back up."

"What?" he sounded downright alarmed, and John's hope for an affirmative answer waned.

"Sherlock, we think you need a feeding tube."

"Who's this 'we'? Just a second ago, you said this was Dr. Janssen's idea."

"I agree with him. I think you should get a feeding tube."

"Absolutely not. I've already been violated enough in this god forsaken place."

"Sherlock, please hear me out. It might be uncomfortable at first, but it can only help you. Your body stands a better chance of fighting the cancer if it's got proper fuel."

"I don't care."

"I know you understand how a human body works. You're way too clever to ignore the basic fact that you need food to survive. Glucose, cellular respiration, you can't deny the basic chemistry and physiology."

"Can't I just get glucose from this tube they've already shoved into me?" he asked, lifting his arm with the IV line. "Or the one in my head?"

"I'm sorry, but it's not enough. They're already giving you as much as they can, and you're still losing weight. You were skinny before all of this happened, you can't afford to lose anything more."

"Isn't there any other way?" he pleaded. John looked into his eyes and saw pure, innocent desperation. The abyss of the universe was about to swallow another piece, and Sherlock didn't want to let that happen. Frankly, neither did John. He hated seeing his friend's independence ripped from him little by little, but he understood the necessity of it. Cancer victims almost always got worse before they got better. He didn't want to play this card, but Sherlock was leaving him no choice.

"Sherlock, do you remember what you said to me a few days ago? When I begged you not to let this cancer beat you." Sherlock grunted assent. "You told me you would try. This is part of trying: you have to let the doctors help you. I know it seems like they're just trying to demean you, but everything they're doing, everything they've ever done is to help you. I know you hate to accept help because you're Sherlock Holmes and whatnot, but you have to. This is one problem you can't deduce your way out of. So I'm going to ask again, will you let them give you a feeding tube?"

"Fine."

John sighed audibly with relief. He could honestly say that was one of the hardest things he'd done in his entire life. He's escaped countless close calls in Afghanistan and even saved several patients that people tried to convince him were hopeless. But convincing Sherlock Holmes to do something he didn't want to do was a feat few could say they'd accomplished. The next nurse that came in to check the catheter bag John requested to find Dr. Janssen and send him in here.

The nurse evidently hadn't conveyed the message with the proper tone, because Dr. Janssen came sprinting into the room fully prepared to call the code team. John assured him there was no emergency, he just wanted to report that Sherlock had approved the nasogastric tube.

"Silly me, assuming the worst. I guess that's what working in a hospital does to you, huh?" Dr. Janssen tried for a laugh, but all he received was a disdainful glare from Sherlock. "Well, I'll be right back."

He returned briefly a few minutes later to introduce a nurse who carried the dreaded tube.

"Do you want me to leave?" John asked Sherlock. He was expecting a vehement order to get the hell out, but was surprised to receive a hesitant shake of the head. He had already risen from his chair, prepared to leave, so he plopped right back down. However subtle it was, Sherlock's next course of action shocked John to the core: he extended his hand. Sherlock Holmes was asking for John to hold his hand. The idea simply did not compute in John's head. The man who was repulsed by any sort of human contact was requesting his hand held. When John didn't immediately comply in his stupor, Sherlock flexed his fingers insistently, so John snapped himself out of it and rushed to his side. He entwined his fingers with Sherlock's long, slender ones. The fingers he'd seen work wonders on the strings of a violin countless times, or fold up beneath his chin when he entered one of his thinking trances. In his weakened state, he still managed to hold onto John like a vice.

The nurse picked up the tube to measure it, and Sherlock's grip tightened impossibly. John wanted to reassure him that is wasn't going to be that bad, but feared he'd be asked to leave if he showed any of the pity Sherlock so despised. John watched resignedly as she held the tube to the side of his nose, extended it to near his earlobe, and finally down to the centre of his chest. She marked about ten inches beyond that, which John assumed would account for passing through the stomach and into the small intestine.

Much to Sherlock's evident dismay, she began prodding around his nostrils to determine which would be better suited. She asked him to breathe while she held each shut one at a time. Afterwards, she told him she'd have to test his gag reflex to ensure he wasn't at risk for aspiration. Sherlock mumbled under his breath, "I've done nothing but gag for the past week." The nurse didn't hear this comment, and proceeded anyways. As much as John had heard Sherlock retch recently, it still managed to trigger some instinct to help his friend and make it stop. Pleased with the results, the nurse handed him a cup of water with a straw and told him to start drinking when she instructed.

Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut as she began inserting the tube into his nose. John had never had one before, but he imagined it must be a dreadful feeling. He knew this was for Sherlock's own good, but the misery deeply embedded in the detective's expression made him want to rip him away from the nurse and hide him back at Baker Street.

"Drink slowly," the nurse told him. He obliged, and the nurse was able to seamlessly pass through his oesophagus. Sherlock audibly exhaled when it was finally over, and John could feel the relief emanating from him. He was about to return to his chair when he remembered his hand, now nearly crushed in Sherlock's grip. He hadn't even noticed how hard he'd been squeezing him. "All finished," the nurse announced, applying the last piece of tape to secure the tube to his face.

After the nurse left John asked, "Are you okay?" Sherlock nodded, but he still hadn't opened his eyes since the procedure began. John watched helplessly as a single tear slid down his cheek and was absorbed in the medical tape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, I won't be able to post a new chapter for the next 5 days because I'll be out of town. Hopefully, this will be enough to hold you over.


	23. Blankets and Books

Sally Donovan was overwhelmed. Since the first newspaper article revealed Sherlock's forced intermission from solving crimes, the London underworld had come alive. Every burglar and murderer had decided to take advantage of the absence of the genius detective. They assumed they'd be more likely to get away with it if only the regular police force would handle the cases, and they were somewhat right. Without Sherlock to throw the difficult cases on, Scotland Yard was struggling to keep up. They had about four murders still unsolved, and countless more petty misdemeanours that simply served to waste time filing paperwork.

To make matters worse, Lestrade appeared constantly distracted. However difficult the fact was to comprehend, Donovan knew that he cared for the Freak and was understandably worried. She'd only seen him once or twice since this whole thing began, and he'd looked pretty terrible then. From what she'd heard, it had only gotten worse. She actually feared going to the hospital to visit, as she wasn't sure what she would find when she got there. The DI had gone on several occasions when he got stuck on cases, and he always came back more haggard than when he'd left.

However, the last time he'd returned, he had a curious expression on his face: one not unlike the look Sherlock displayed when he figured out how the clues fit together. He'd marched straight to Anderson and they'd had a brief but heated discussion. Not that Donovan had been eavesdropping, but Lestrade had asked Anderson for photos from old cases, then yelled at him for being a compassionless dick. She had to agree with him on that point. If she'd heard correctly, he blatantly insulted the Freak, which even she understood was unacceptable in the current emotional climate. Ever since then, Lestrade had religiously checked the mailbox at the office, and Donovan struggled to figure out why.

That day, however, he victoriously produced a large package from the box and rushed inside to open it. Donovan followed him curiously, anxious to see what all his fuss was about. He tried to pry open the box by hand, but it was secured too tightly. Frantically, he searched the room for a sharp instrument to cut the tape, and Donovan handed him a key from a table near her. Without pausing to thank her, he ripped it open and revealed what he'd been waiting for all this time. Donovan nearly choked.

"What the hell is that?" she questioned, actively repressing a chuckle.

"I've had it made for Sherlock," he explained.

"Well, it's definitely... unique."

"That's what I was going for. Can you cover for me while I run to the hospital to give it to him?"

"Sure. If you promise to get his reaction on video," she joked, biting a knuckle to stop herself from bursting into a fit of laughter.

"Don't think I can do that, but I'm your boss, so you'll do what I ask anyway." He didn't wait for her to respond before exiting the room quickly, the gift tucked under his arm. Donovan couldn't hold it in anymore, she laughed so violently that someone passing in the hallway asked if she was okay. She managed to nod through her hysteria, and he moved on. The Freak was in for a real treat.

~0~

John had slept fitfully that night, haunted by nightmares of a severity he hadn't experienced in years. All night long, his subconscious swam with fears and worries about the future and Sherlock, manifesting themselves in twisted depictions of his life during the war. He relived the deaths of dozens of men whose lives he'd failed to save, saw countless explosions light up the distant horizon, and felt the agony of being shot in the shoulder over and over again. He heard a comrade shouting his name as he fell to his knees, but it sounded faint, and he knew he was on his way out.

"John!" the voice sounded so distant, like it came from another world. "John!" oddly, it sounded louder this time as opposed to quieter. Was he not passing out after all? "John!" Like a radio station coming into focus, each shout seemed more coherent than the last. At last, John broke through the surface of his dream and jolted awake in the hospital room. He realised then who had been shouting. "John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked. "You were tossing and turning like mad."

"Yes, I'm fine," John assured groggily. "Just a bad dream. Afghanistan stuff." John took a deep breath and glanced around the room to bring himself back to reality. He noted the drip already running into the reservoir in Sherlock's head; they must have started the day's treatment without waking him. He felt slightly enraged that they hadn't bothered to include him, but figured Sherlock had probably insisted they not wake him.

"You haven't had dreams that severe in a long time, you've told me. Why now?" Sherlock questioned. John recognised the inquisitive stare and as much as he wanted to silence the topic, he decided appeasing Sherlock was more important than his own privacy.

"It's probably just stress."

"You shouldn't be stressed."

"Why not?"

"You're not in any danger. Any stress you're currently experiencing is purely a construct of your own mind."

"If this is another ploy to get me to leave you alone, it's not going to work. You may think it's ridiculous to stress out over someone else's problems, but most people tend to get worked up when their loved ones are at risk. When will you get it through your thick skull that people actually care about you?"

Before Sherlock could answer, their conversation was interrupted by Lestrade bursting into the room with a giddy grin on his face and a large package tucked under his arm. He appeared out of breath, as if he'd sprinted up the stairs to get here instead of taking the lift.

"Whatcha got there, Greg?" John inquired, somewhat amused at his manic entrance. The DI's opportunity to answer was cut off by the return of Dr. Harrison to remove the needle from the reservoir.

"You can't just burst in here looking like that and not explain to us what's going on," Sherlock stated, making a valiant effort to ignore Dr. Harrison's ministrations around his head.

"I brought you something," Lestrade intoned, still huffing. He placed the box gingerly on Sherlock's lap and stepped back with a suspicious smile. "I hope you like it. Sherlock furrowed his brow, and John, too, wondered what on Earth the DI would have given him. His first guess was a huge pile of cold cases, but he hoped Lestrade was aware Sherlock was too weak to do much with those, and the thought might only upset him. Dr. Harrison hung back by the door, clearly curious as to what a friend would present her eccentric patient with. "I had to go through Anderson to get this made, so you'd better be grateful," Lestrade warned sarcastically. This made John even more curious as to what the box contained, and he watched anxiously as Sherlock picked at the tape. Normally, he would have been able to open in within ten seconds, but the illness made him much slower and he struggled to peel up the first corners. John resisted the urge to rush in and assist him because he knew that Sherlock would take great offense to being helped with such a simple task.

He remembered this particular feeling from Christmas morning when he was a little boy; when he woke up before his parents did and sat watching the hands crawl around the face of his clock, awaiting his mother's appearance at his bedroom door to announce it was time to open his gifts. At last, Sherlock managed to free the first corner of the tape and the rest of the piece came off easily. He opened the flaps and John craned his neck to see what was inside. It looked like a regular blanket at first, but there was no way Lestrade would have been that excited to present Sherlock with a simple blanket; there had to be something special about it.

Sherlock lifted the blanket out of the box and John practically gasped in horror—it was one of the most gruesome things he'd ever seen in his life. The quilt was a collage of photographs of dead bodies, many mutilated in some horrific fashion. It was rather nice of Lestrade to buy a blanket when John had recently told him of Sherlock's persistent chills, but the choice of decoration seemed rather odd until John recognised the pattern. As Sherlock laid the blanket out flat, John noticed people he'd seen before. The hiker whose head had been bashed in by a boomerang, Eddie van Coon, Andrew West from that case Mycroft had insisted they take, and the woman in pink from his first case with Sherlock. These were all photos from murders Sherlock had solved. John immediately felt an immense sense of respect and gratitude for Lestrade; this was an absolutely fantastic idea.

John looked to Sherlock to see his reaction, and his heart melted. Upon his face was the iconic smile John hadn't seen in ages. The light had returned to his friend's eyes, and he appeared genuinely overjoyed. Lestrade blushed; apparently even he hadn't expected his gift to be so vastly appreciated.

"I-I don't know what to say, this is fantastic," Sherlock stuttered. This was quite possibly the first time ever John had seen the detective so obviously flabbergasted at an action of generosity directed at him. He'd been presented with lots of little things by gracious clients, but he'd never taken them seriously (most notably the hat).

"I'm glad you like it. John told me you'd been complaining of the cold, so I thought I'd get you something a little more exciting than whatever the hospital could provide," Lestrade explained sheepishly.

"Greg, you've really outdone yourself," said John. This was exactly what Sherlock needed right now, something to cheer him up. Of course he should have expected Dr. Harrison would have some input to ruin everything.

"I'm sorry, but I can't allow you to keep that," she said in about as unapologetic a tone as possible.

"Why? It's just a quilt," John said, bracing himself for the imminent confrontation.

"The patient is immunocompromised from the severity of his treatments. I simply cannot allow a foreign object to be kept in such close proximity for any length of time. It could be riddled with all sorts of bacteria." John seethed with rage at her nonchalant referral to Sherlock as 'the patient.' He was not just a patient, he was a person! It was inhumane for her to talk about him like he was just a specimen. He was about to open his mouth to speak his mind, but Lestrade beat him to it.

"How dare you?!" he shouted. "As a doctor, your one and only goal is to ensure the health and safety of those in your care! All you've done so far is inject my friend with countless doses of poison to make him absolutely miserable, and then you try to take away the only thing that's managed to cheer him up even the slightest!"

"Greg—" Sherlock attempted to interrupt, using the DI's real name for a change, but there was no stopping Lestrade's tirade.

"Are you honestly so sadistic you'd consider sacrificing his sanity for your so-called 'treatments?' I get that this disease is difficult to handle, but that gives you no right to deny him such a simple happiness! No right!" At this point, all the shouting had drawn attention from passersby in the hallway, and Sherlock had shrunk under his sheets to hide his embarrassment.

"Sir, I understand your point, but would you really like to run the risk of him contracting an infection? There's no telling what a bacteria or virus could do to him in this state, it could even become life-threatening," Dr. Harrison defended.

"You cannot possibly be telling me that there's nothing you can do to make it safe? How'd you get all the sheets and blankets that you do allow patients to use, huh?"

"Well, I suppose we could sterilize it, but we'd still have to take it away from him for a little bit to do so."

"Do it!" Lestrade growled. "And make sure whoever's in charge of the process knows that this is as urgent as any emergency. Got it?" Dr. Harrison nodded frantically and rushed to collect the quilt from Sherlock, who still hadn't emerged from beneath the sheets. She almost smacked herself on the side of the doorframe in her haste to escape Lestrade's rage. When she left, Lestrade released a massive sigh and sank into an empty chair. John almost applauded him for such a display of bravery against a doctor. Most people feared standing up to doctors; the fancy degrees and white coats gave everyone the impression that they were intellectual gods. In reality, they were regular people just trying to succeed in an incredibly competitive field.

"Wow," John uttered, slightly awestruck at the DI's passion. "I've never seen you get so worked up."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout. But that woman... she's unbearable. Remind me again why you haven't switched oncologists?"

"Sherlock insisted. He wanted to keep an eye on her or something like that."

"He's a masochist for wanting to keep that woman around."

"And his hearing is still perfectly intact, in case you've forgotten," Sherlock pointed out. John immediately felt guilty for doing exactly the thing he'd just scorned in Dr. Harrison.

"Sorry, mate. But in our defence you did bury yourself under the sheet," John said.

"Fine," he relented. "Are the criminals of London up to anything interesting, Lestrade?"

"Umm, no. Not really." Even John could tell he was hiding something, so it must have been plain as day to Sherlock. Lestrade likely didn't want to tantalise him with a good case, because they all knew he'd sacrifice his own health if given the opportunity to solve it.

"Lestrade, look at me," Sherlock insisted. "Do I honestly look like I'm capable of so much as leaving this bed? I've escaped twice before, these nurses all circle me like vultures, I don't stand a chance of even getting out that door. I promise I won't overexert myself thinking about a case, so just tell me. I feel completely isolated from the outside world in this place."

"Well, there was one rather intriguing murder. The body was found completely drained of blood."

"Elaborate." Sherlock instructed, automatically assuming his iconic thinking position with his eyes closed and his hands folded beneath his chin. However, his casted arm, shaved head still bearing the remaining stitches from his surgical incision, and his feeding tube made the image an absolute travesty. John silently signalled Lestrade to shut up. It would do more harm than good to give Sherlock a summary of the case, because he'd be eaten up by the desire for more. He'd waste valuable energy keeping himself awake to think about it, and John didn't want to witness him do that to himself. Fortunately, Lestrade got the message and nodded in understanding.

"It's a relatively new case, we don't know much more than that."

"Give me all you do know. Details, I need details."

"I don't know any of the details."

"Yes you do, you just won't tell me."

"That might be true, or it might not be. Regardless, you're not getting any details." John almost laughed at Sherlock's comically exaggerated eye roll. Shortly after, Lestrade got a phone call summoning him back to work yet again. "Hopefully they'll return your quilt soon, I'm so glad you like it," Lestrade said before exiting, and once again John and Sherlock were alone.

"I swear, everyone's treating me like a child!" Sherlock groaned. "I'm not an invalid."

"I agree, you're not. But you look exhausted, get some rest."

"I'm not tired," he whined, and John was tempted to point out just how childish he sounded.

"Why do you insist on being difficult?"

"It's the only thing entertaining to do in this place."

"I could bring you a book to read if you'd like."

"Think Dr. Harrison would insist upon it being sterilised before she let me read it?"

"I wouldn't put it past her, but it's worth a shot. Is that a yes for a book?"

"I'd be surprised if you could find anything worth reading," Sherlock said, fighting a yawn.

"I'll take that as a challenge," said John. "I will go look for something, and you will take a nap."

"Hardly a fair trade, but I accept."

"If I ask the nurses when I get back, will they tell me that you actually slept?"

"Yes, mother."

"Not funny," John said curtly. He left Sherlock in the room and stopped by the nurses' station on his way down the hallway. "I know it sounds like a strange request, but if you could keep an eye on Sherlock Holmes and let me know how long he sleeps. He's exhausted, but he might force himself to stay awake just to spite me." The nurse seemed confused at first, but nodded resolutely. She'd probably received stranger requests before.

John left the hospital for the first time in what felt like forever. He couldn't imagine how imprisoned Sherlock must feel. He couldn't decide if he wanted to return to Baker Street, since his main goal was to find a suitable book for Sherlock. Frankly, entertainment was possibly the most difficult request the detective could have made. Considering what he usually did for fun, it didn't seem like pages full of words—no matter what their meaning—could ever keep him occupied. He considered searching for a textbook of sorts, something he could use to expand the database of information he kept in his head to help him with deductions, but he couldn't imagine a topic he wouldn't already have studied in depth. In the end, he decided to just take a cab to a bookstore and peruse the shelves there. Hopefully he'd find something worth buying.

He stood on the side of the street waiting for one of the omnipresent London taxis to drive by, but the street remained conspicuously absent of them. John immediately blamed the lack of a tall, coated figure beside him. He almost wished Sherlock would steal the first cab and force John to wait for the next one as he often did, because that would mean things were as they should be.

The arrival of a cab shook him out of his loneliness; he stepped inside and asked the cabbie to find the nearest bookstore. The ride passed in permeating silence, and John simply stared out the window at all the people whose lives weren't currently in turmoil. He loathed the fact they could continue living as if nothing had happened, that the world could continue to turn without Sherlock in his proper place. He wondered if any of them had seen the story in the papers and, if so, if they even cared. Most people only knew of the detective as the brain that solved cases for Scotland Yard, not as the man John knew. His absence might allow a few more criminals to escape justice, but otherwise, the general population was totally unaffected.

His thoughts shifted to Sherlock's small circle of friends: the people whose lives were truly affected by the situation. He thought fondly of Lestrade's gift and how much comfort—physical and emotional—it would provide once Dr. Harrison returned it. Suddenly, his thoughts of the DI turned sour. Maybe it was stress, or exhaustion, or jealousy that he hadn't come up with an idea like that, but he began to feel doubts about Lestrade's motives. Why did he care about Sherlock so much? He didn't know Sherlock like John did; nobody knew Sherlock like John did. The two of them weren't really friends, just colleagues of a sort. Sherlock provided Lestrade with the answers to his most difficult cases, and Lestrade provided Sherlock with an outlet for his manic energy. That was it; that was the only redeeming factor in their relationship. Therefore, Lestrade was only hoping Sherlock would recover to avoid losing his tool.

Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me?! John lightly smacked himself across the face to snap out of it. He knew their relationship was deeper than that, and Greg would never be so selfish. He was just as invested in this crisis as John was, he just didn't have as much spare time to spend at the hospital.

"Sir, we're here," the cabbie announced. John stared at him for a moment, dumbstruck; he'd momentarily forgotten where he was and what he was doing. Fortunately, he returned to reality and paid the driver before exiting the taxi onto the sidewalk. He shook away the remnants of the bad thoughts as he entered the bookstore and refocused on the task at hand. A book for Sherlock Holmes. This was quite possibly the most difficult undertaking he'd ever accepted. He paused at the entrance to choose a section to begin his search. He immediately dismissed any classic literature, knowing Sherlock would abhor it. Fantasy was out too because Sherlock wouldn't entertain the idea of the fantastical even in the realm of fiction. Science fiction was slightly less terrible, but Sherlock probably wouldn't like that either. After much contemplation, John relented to checking out the mystery section. Of course it was cliché, but he might enjoy a pseudo-case if he couldn't have a real one.

He perused the shelves of mystery novels, occasionally pulling a promising one off the shelf to read its summary. Many of the books were incredibly juvenile; Sherlock could probably figure out the ending before even opening the book. John had read several mystery novels throughout his teenage years, and he remembered particularly liking the Maltese Falcon and Murder on the Orient Express. It didn't take long for him to find both of those and decide they were as good a bet as any. Agatha Christie was regarded by many as the queen of mystery, and he recalled a massive twist ending to the Orient Express that might even throw Sherlock for a loop. He decided to purchase those two, and then he found himself wandering to the nonfiction section. Sherlock had a secret passion he'd only revealed to John by accident; he'd forgotten to clean up a particular experiment and had been forced to confess. He picked up the first book he found on the topic and decided it would do as a gag gift of sorts. He didn't expect Sherlock to actually read it, since he probably knew everything in it anyway, but maybe it would make him smile. His reaction to Lestrade's quilt had been infectious, John couldn't help but smile too seeing him so happy, and he'd give anything to experience it again. He bought the books and grinned stupidly when the cashier eyed him strangely. He suspected she didn't sell many copies of that book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter so much. It just has the right amount of fluff, and a bit of BAMF Lestrade, which is always exciting. Thanks for reading!


	24. Facing Mycroft

Typically, Sherlock enjoyed being alone—the absence of stupidity was always a relief—yet he found himself missing John's presence. He knew John would eventually return, but he couldn't escape a sense of abandonment. Since this whole thing began, he'd feared everyone would leave him because he could no longer provide for them. As much as John tried to convince him that nobody was going to leave just because he wasn't exciting enough, the worry still nagged at the back of his mind.

Every person that passed in the hallway he hoped would be John returning. Each time it proved to be someone else, he was disappointed. He'd even prefer Lestrade or Molly to the gaping emptiness of the room. When John eventually did come back, it took a great amount of willpower not to seem too relieved. He didn't want to make John think he couldn't handle being alone for just an hour or two; he'd already shown far too much vulnerability for his liking.

"Did you hold up your end of the bargain?" John asked accusingly. Sherlock tried to remember if he'd slept at all, but the gap between sleep and consciousness had narrowed since he'd gotten sick. He may have passed out and not even realised it.

"I don't know," Sherlock answered honestly.

"How can you not know?"

"I just don't. I might have fallen asleep and woken up without remembering doing so."

"Well, if you don't remember, that probably means you fell asleep, so you're allowed to have these." He handed Sherlock a small bag with a couple books in it. Sherlock grabbed the bag, but his arm was too weak to hold the weight of three books by itself, and it plopped onto the bed. John obviously noticed what had happened, but was making a futile effort not to acknowledge it. Sherlock pulled the books out of the bag one by one and surveyed them. He recognised the titles of the Maltese Falcon and Murder on the Orient Express, though he'd never read them. Fictional mysteries never held the same allure as real ones, but since Lestrade didn't show any signs of letting him help on a real case any time soon, he'd take what he could get. Normally, he would probably find them boring, but even a ridiculously simple mystery was better than staring at the ceiling. He pulled out the third book and burst out laughing.

"I thought you might react like that," said John.

"The Beekeeper's Bible? You've got to be kidding," Sherlock said, barely managing to get the words out through his laughter.

"I remembered what you told me after that experiment. And since I have no desire to ever enter a flat overrun by a swarm of angry bees again, I thought you'd like to see how to do it right."

"The flat was not overrun by a swarm of angry bees; there were bees flying around the flat. There was no evidence that they were angry or swarming."

"I got stung four times! They were angry enough."

"Whatever. Thank you for the books."

"You're welcome."

"Did you get them at Hatchards?"

"How could you possibly have figured that out?"

"You were gone for only an hour and a half, meaning you travelled no more than twenty minutes away from here, accounting for the amount of time you'd undoubtedly spend attempting to hail a cab and searching for a suitable book. These books are fairly new, only been pulled off the shelf two," he paused to shuffle through the pages of the Maltese Falcon, "maybe three times, despite being rather popular volumes, so it's a busy location, selling copies almost as quickly as it orders new ones. Finally, I know of only one book store in London pretentious enough to stock the Beekeeper's Bible."

"Amazing."

"Plus, the receipt's in the bag."

"Okay, so you just made all that up?"

"No, I didn't just make it up. It's all true, it's just not what I used to firmly conclude the location of purchase."

"I'll say I believe you if it'll get you to shut up."

"When have I ever lied to you?" Sherlock asked, realising the ridiculousness of this question just as it came out of his mouth. He could think of many occasions in which he'd lied to John in the last week alone, and by the look on his face, John was checking a mental list.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that and instead sit down in this chair and read my book."

"Please, you've been trying to get through chapter one of that book for a solid week. When will you accept defeat? You're not going to finish it."

"I'll accept defeat when I finish this book."

"So, never?"

"No, when there's no longer a need to accept defeat because I've succeeded. Now pick up one of the books you made me hunt for and read the damn thing!"

Sherlock sensed the same mix of vexation, frustration, and amusement that John expressed whenever Sherlock was 'being Sherlock,' and he loved it. Quibbling like this was so typical of them that it almost made him forget the current situation. But a pang of nausea from the morning's chemo and a violent chill thrust him back into the reality of his failing body. He wished Dr. Harrison would hurry up in fixing his quilt so he could have it back.

When Lestrade had given him that quilt, the first hint of happiness he'd experienced in a long time flared up inside him. Not only would it alleviate the constant cold, but it was an affirmation that he wasn't alone in this battle. So many demons he'd fought alone before meeting Lestrade and John, it was a great reassurance to know he had friends by his side this time. It gave him hope that there would be an end to this. Not only that, but it proved Lestrade's understanding. The collage of solved murders was a fantastic idea; remembering all those fun cases helped Sherlock take his mind off things. A regular blanket would have been a thoughtful present, but the butchery blanket (as he had recently christened it) was a token of an incredible bond.

But the best part was John's reaction. He'd been so worked up for so long; Sherlock had almost forgotten what his face looked like with a smile instead of a perpetual frown. He missed the little chuckle he'd elicit whenever Sherlock said something particularly ignorant or arrogant. He wanted to thank Lestrade for providing the means for him to see that side of John again.

He didn't really have the energy to read, but John had gone through the trouble of finding and purchasing these books for him, so he forced himself to open one up and at least try to get through a few chapters. However, his cast proved a severe hindrance to page-turning. He spent more time attempting to flip from page one to two than he'd spent actually reading page one. John noticed his struggles, and sighed: "Would you like some help?"

"How could you tell?" Sherlock asked in mock surprise.

"Certainly not by the way you humbly admitted your inability to accomplish this simple task due to circumstances completely beyond your control."

"No need to be so harsh."

"No need to be so stubborn."

A brief staring match ensued before both men burst into cheerful laughter.

"Would you rather I read the book aloud to you, or hovered over your shoulder creepily and turned the pages for you?" John chuckled.

"I guess you can read it aloud. I'll try not to fall asleep; your narration tends to be quite dull."

"Excuse me, I'm a doctor, not an actor."

"Clearly."

"If you're going to be rude, I'm not reading to you."

"Sorry," Sherlock huffed quickly. He sincerely did want John to read to him, the sarcasm was simply a defence mechanism. It was one of the few old habits he was still able to partake in. He settled down as comfortably as possible and let John's voice wash over him. He felt the tendrils of sleep grappling for his consciousness, but fought them off as long as possible. He didn't want to miss any of the book, since it was impossible to deduce with missing pieces of the story. But even more than that, he didn't want the omnipresent silence that came with sleep. He much preferred the voice of John, its familiarity and comfort. Unfortunately for him, sleep was an enemy too powerful to defeat and he eventually closed his eyes and slipped away.

~0~

Sherlock managed to get through two chapters before falling asleep. John sighed, marked the page, and closed the book. He placed it on his lap and yawned exhaustedly. He considered going home, but quickly decided against that. Whenever he went home, he felt like he should be here. Not long after he made up his mind, Dr. Janssen entered the room.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," he greeted. "Dr. Harrison told me about the gift he received this morning, I wish I could have been there to see it. It sounded like quite the scene."

"Yes, well, Lestrade's had it up to here with all he's dealing with. He's under a lot of pressure just trying to do his job, and then this whole thing gets thrown at him. It's no wonder he was primed to explode," John reasoned.

"Understandable, quite understandable. What I came here to report is that his numbers are down significantly since we started the new treatment regiment, which is great news."

"Fantastic!"

"Yes, we're almost ready to begin the next phase."

"Which would be...?"

"Well, actually, it depends. That's what I came here to talk to you about. It all depends on whether or not we have a bone marrow donor. We've already established his brother is a match, but he didn't seem convinced that Mr. Holmes would be willing to donate."

"They have a complicated relationship."

"So I see. I was going to ask you if you would find a way to convince him to go forward with it. In these types of cancer, a bone marrow transplant greatly reduces the risk of recurrence. As complicated as their relationship might be, I find it hard to believe that a brother could live with himself knowing he could have helped and refused."

"You don't know Mycroft. He would consider it a personal accomplishment to have been even partially responsible for the demise of his brother."

"Let's not go so far as to mention 'demise.' Even without the transplant, we're on track to achieve remission. How long it would last is the only part up in the air."

"Okay. I'll try my best to talk some sense into Mycroft, but I can't promise anything. Just out of curiosity, what are the odds of two people that aren't siblings being a match?"

"Well, if the sibling declines, we usually look into the national registry for people who have already donated. Caucasians find a match about three fourths of the time."

"Okay, those are pretty good odds. Then why are you so intent on getting Mycroft's marrow?"

"Upon his initial hesitation, we searched the national registry and did not find a suitable match."

"Then why would you tell me there's a three fourths chance if you already knew there wasn't one? That was cruel."

"My apologies, I was only answering your question."

John silently fumed. He wasn't sure which he hated more: doctors not telling you enough and leaving you to imagine the worst, or doctors getting your hopes up and then crushing them. Besides, that wasn't even his question. He had no interest whatsoever in the general Caucasian population, he only cared if Sherlock had a match.

"You may have misunderstood; I meant to ask about my odds of being a match."

"Well, I can't give you a good estimate unless you actually get tested. And that is why I requested you talk to his brother. He needs to be definitively ruled out as a donor before we spend too much time and resources looking for an alternative."

"Okay. I will speak with Mycroft. Hopefully he'll be able to spare a moment from running the country to discuss his little brother's life."

Dr. Janssen appeared obviously uncomfortable at this statement, and he quickly excused himself, claiming he had other things to attend to. John had reservations about calling Mycroft. He knew the man hated to be interrupted, so he didn't want to accidentally call during an important meeting. On the other hand, no meeting could be as important as Sherlock, even Mycroft knew that. He'd seen firsthand what the British government was willing to do to protect his younger brother. Taking a deep breath and checking that Sherlock was still asleep, he dialled Mycroft's number and waited patiently.

"Yes?"

"Mycroft, it's John."

"Is everything alright?" he immediately inquired. Leave it to Mycroft to assume John wouldn't bother calling him unless something had gone wrong.

"Yes, everything's fine. Dr. Janssen just wanted me to talk to you about the possibility of a bone marrow transplant. Correct me if I'm wrong, you are a confirmed match."

"Yes, that is correct."

"Are you planning to donate?" John asked.

"Not necessarily. Even if I was, who's to say Sherlock would accept it?"

"You're a match, they've already established that."

"I don't mean biologically, I mean mentally. You think he'd be happy with a piece of me running through his veins? He loathes being as closely related to me as he already is."

"I think even Sherlock would see sense and accept something that would save his life," John said. But as the words left his mouth, he began to doubt them. Sherlock had never shown any aversion to diving headfirst into perilous situations; his regard for his own life was minimal to none. Would he really choose higher odds of recurrence, or even death over accepting Mycroft's help?

"John, you don't really believe that," Mycroft stated matter-of-factly. John hated him for knowing exactly what he was thinking.

"Forget the receiving end, all I care about is whether or not you're willing to donate bone marrow. I'll worry about convincing Sherlock, but the doctors need to know if they can count on you before they proceed."

"John, I'm a very busy man."

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything, Mycroft? Your brother's life is at stake! I knew you were selfish Mycroft, but I never thought you would stoop so low as to let your own flesh and blood remain in jeopardy just because you're scared!"

John didn't know where the tirade—or the deduction—came from, but he could tell from the density of the silence on the other end that he'd been correct. Honestly, the only way to get through to Mycroft Holmes was to shout at him.

"Such an accusation," Mycroft began, but John cut him off.

"You know I'm right, don't even think about denying it. You're afraid."

"John, what reason would I have to be afraid?"

"Many people are afraid of needles, but I would venture to guess you're above that. Maybe I'm totally wrong and you are just afraid of needles, and that is all's that's motivating this nonsense. But I have a feeling that's not the case."

He heard Mycroft gulp, and knew he was on the right track. "Mycroft Holmes, you're afraid it won't be enough. You're afraid that no matter what you, or anyone else, does, your brother is going to die. And you're comfortable enough knowing what a bastard you are to live with the guilt that he might have lived had you done something about it. But what you can't fathom is donating marrow and him succumbing anyway. Because if that happens, it means you weren't good enough. All your best efforts to save your brother failed. You'd rather be the icy jerk of a big brother who wouldn't sacrifice even a little bit to save his family than be the desperate one who tried everything and still failed."

"John, I don't know where you came up with this explanation."

"Shut up. Don't even bother trying to deny it, I can hear it in your voice that I am one hundred percent right."

"Fine. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"I would have preferred a, 'yes, John, you were right and I should listen to your wonderful advice more often,' but 'fine' will suffice. I will see you here tomorrow to talk with Dr. Janssen," John stated. At this point, there was no asking Mycroft if he was coming. John had hit the nail on the head and Mycroft had no alleys to back into.

"Yes. I'll be there at ten o'clock."

"Good." John firmly hung up and squeezed his phone in aggravation. He swore, if he was ever alone with that man, he'd murder him in cold blood. He flopped down in the chair and ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to calm himself down. It usually took him a while to come back down from an angry high. But as soon as he looked up, he instantly came crashing back to Earth. Two pale blue-green eyes stared back at him.


	25. Radioactive

Shit. He'd checked that Sherlock was asleep before calling Mycroft, but apparently the volume of his voice had woken him. Not only had he heard John discuss the very real possibility of death, but also confirmation that his elder brother feared the same thing. John knew how badly it must have stung to hear mentions of his own demise thrown about so casually.

"How much of that did you hear?" John inquired hesitantly.

"Enough," Sherlock replied. "I've never heard anyone tell my brother off like that. I'm impressed." John was shocked. He thought for sure Sherlock would be upset, but he seemed pleased that someone had put Mycroft in his place. He tried not to make his sigh of relief too dramatic, but of course Sherlock still noticed it. "What, were you afraid I'd be upset with you?"

"Not entirely. I just didn't want you to hear me talk about dying. I didn't want to scare you."

"We've been over this, John. I am going to die."

John knew what Sherlock meant by this statement, but he still didn't like to hear those words come so casually from his ill friend's lips. "Please don't say that like that. I get that man is mortal and all, but I don't want to hear you talk about it so resignedly. When you say it like that, it sounds like you've given up the fight, and I couldn't bear it if you did."

"I'm sorry John," he muttered. John had heard Sherlock express more emotion in the short time since he'd gotten sick than he had in the years he'd known him previously, and he wasn't sure if he liked it or not. This new Sherlock was so much more vulnerable, so fragile, and John wanted more than anything for him to regain his strength, even if it came with the walls built up around his emotions. Such raw feeling didn't suit the detective.

A nurse chose that moment to return with the quilt Lestrade had made. John tried to push away the bad thoughts and focus on the awkwardness she displayed handling such a gory masterpiece. He could see in Sherlock's eyes that he was enjoying it too. She laid it out on the bed, and John glanced at all the pictures, remembering the cases he and Sherlock had worked on together. But he also wondered about all the ones he didn't recognise, crimes that had been committed before the dawn of their partnership.

He saw a man sprawled out face down in a star shape, a Welsh flag driven straight through him into the ground like a stake. He almost wished he'd been there; it seemed like an interesting case. His thoughts wandered to how different his life would be if he'd never been shot, never come home from Afghanistan. Would Sherlock have gotten another flatmate instead? Running into Stamford that day had been serendipitous, and he laughed to think how different his life now was because of that fateful meeting. He just as easily have been a boring internist now as the companion and blogger of the world's greatest detective.

"I've named it the butchery blanket," Sherlock announced, abruptly forcing John back to reality.

"I think that's quite appropriate. How many of these cases are from before we met?" John asked.

"About half of them. I wasn't only a lowly drug addict before you barged into my life."

"Right. Just mostly. And have you always been an arsehole, or is that a new trait just for me?" John chuckled, excited to engage in another petty argument because it felt so normal. When they quarrelled, he could almost forget where they were and why.

"Hey, you don't get to make fun of me; I'm sick," Sherlock defended.

"Please, even from beyond the grave you'd still find a way to retort." John didn't like how he so casually referenced his illness. This was supposed to have been a moment of normalcy, but it had been sadly short-lived. That just proved how omnipresent the leukaemia had made itself in their lives.

~0~

The next day, Dr. Janssen came in soon before Mycroft was due to arrive to discuss the details of a bone marrow transplant. John listened closely to his every word, his medical training not having encompassed this area of expertise. He had to continuously jostle Sherlock to keep him awake, although he suspected he was just pretending to fall asleep out of boredom.

"Before we can do anything, we need to make sure you're ready to receive a marrow donation. It may sound counterintuitive, but completely wiping out your immune system is a crucial first step. We can't risk your body attacking the new marrow cells," he explained. "The chemotherapy has already weakened it, but we'll need to use radiation to ensure it won't react negatively to the new cells. We'll put in a port through which we'll give you the new cells, and harvest them from your brother about two days before transplant day. You'll be given several infusions of new bone marrow over the course of about a week, during which you'll be closely monitored to ensure you accept the donor cells and because of your suppressed immunity. Any questions?"

John balked at the massive amount of information he'd just been given, and he couldn't think of anything to ask. It all sounded so daunting. Even though he knew it was the best course of action, he still didn't feel comfortable with the doctors purposefully destroying such a vital part of Sherlock's body. He knew from his medical training how crucial the immune system was to survival. He also knew that he'd be practically quarantined during the procedure to try to avoid infections.

"There's no chance that I'll be more like Mycroft afterwards, correct?" Sherlock asked. John suspected this was a serious question and not a joke. It gladdened him to know that Sherlock still feared becoming more like his brother above any of the other possible complications.

"No, that won't happen. Emotions or personality aren't transferred in bone marrow," Dr. Janssen explained.

"When does he start?" John asked.

"We'd like to start radiation as soon as today once we have the confirmation from his brother that he will be donating."

"That you have," Mycroft announced as he made his entrance, umbrella clicking menacingly on the stark tile floor.

"Excellent, Mr. Holmes. You're right on time. I'll discuss your role in the treatment with you later, but first I will explain the process of total body irradiation, or TBI. It sounds more complicated than it actually is, and we'll be doing most of the actual work." His attempt at a joke did not sit well with John. This was a grave matter, and humour had no place in it. "We start with what's called simulation, which consists of mapping your body to plan the radiation dosages. We'll x-ray your chest to get a model for lung blocks which will be used during the actual treatment and get a CT scan. We'll also have to mark your skin with small tattoos to help with positioning. These are very tiny, pinprick-sized. Once the radiation therapists have planned your treatment thoroughly, we'll start on a twice a day routine. It's not going to be fun, I'll tell you that now, but I trust your support system here will help you through it. However, during this time, visitation will be strictly regulated because of the high potential for infection. I know they're your friends, but they could be carrying many pathogens harmless to them that would wreak havoc on a weakened immune system. Understand?"

Sherlock gave a weak nod, appearing overwhelmed by all the information being thrown at him. John felt bad for him, it was a daunting thought. Everyone was taught that radiation was deadly, yet here they were planning to use it for medicinal purposes. Cancer was a strange beast.

~0~

Simulation day arrived far sooner than John had expected. In the days leading up to it, Sherlock had shown excellent improvement, the chemo finally working its magic on the cancer cells. He actually managed a brief, assisted walk around the ward before he became too exhausted. He hoped this wasn't a sort of calm before the storm, a reprieve from the misery to be followed by even more intense suffering. The doctor inside of him knew that things could take a turn for the worse without warning at any given time.

When the nurses came to escort Sherlock to his appointment with the radiation therapists, a silent conversation passed between them. John didn't have to ask if Sherlock wanted him to come along: he could read it in the other man's eyes. His intimate knowledge of Sherlock's expressions and thinking allowed him to read that he was practically begging John not to let the strangers take him away all alone. John understood the foreignness of the radiation department, and he knew it could be a frightening place, especially if one didn't understand what was going on. The noise, flashing lights, and medical jargon of the radiotherapists could be quite daunting.

He followed the nurses as they escorted Sherlock. He'd insisted on walking, despite John's protest. He suspected Sherlock knew how possible it was that he'd return to being unable to muster the energy to even stay awake for an extended period of time, much less exercise such an independent act. It was slow going, but John wasn't about to suggest a wheelchair to speed things up. Sherlock was too stubborn to admit he'd incorrectly assessed his own strength; he'd fight until he passed out just to prove himself right.

When they arrived at the radiology department, John was surprised at the amount of people waiting for them. He'd been unaware of the number of radiation specialists assigned to a single patient. He wasn't sure if it was reassuring or unnerving to know that a small army was required to ensure this process went smoothly. The therapists led Sherlock into the room containing the simulator. John made to follow, but was abruptly cut off by another doctor.

"I'm sorry, but relatives aren't allowed inside. You can stay here with us, but no further," he explained. John almost retorted that he wasn't a relative—just a friend—but decided that there were more important things. He glanced into the room to see one of the doctors positioning Sherlock on a stark metal table. He couldn't help but be reminded of a mortuary slab.

"We need you to stay extremely still," John heard one of the therapists tell Sherlock. "In order to properly calibrate the dosage, we need your body to remain in the exact same position. Don't speak unless it's an emergency, okay?" Her tone seemed innocent enough, but the realization that this was the same person who was going to purposefully destroy a vital organ system of Sherlock's immediately soured his opinion. She left him alone in the room and began to operate the controls with her fellow doctors. John watched as the position of the table shifted and the room shone with lasers. It looked like a scene from a science fiction movie, as if Sherlock was a Frankenstein about to be reanimated.

Throughout the procedure, therapists went in and out of the room and fiddled with things. John wanted to ask what they were doing, but he didn't want to interrupt their focus or delay the process any more. It was taking longer than he'd expected, but then again, he didn't know hardly anything about TBI or the preparation it entailed. After the simulation ended, Sherlock was taken to x-ray to mark the positioning of his lungs. The therapists explained that the lungs were particularly sensitive to radiation and special blocks would need to be fabricated to shield them during the majority of the treatments. The x-rays were taken standing, and John worried that Sherlock wouldn't have the strength to support himself long enough. He seemed awfully weak after the walk to the radiology department. Towards the end, John could see the discomfort and exhaustion etched on his face, and mentioned it to the therapists.

"Are you almost done? I'm not sure how much longer he can last," he commented quietly, so as not to risk Sherlock hearing his concerns. He knew how much the detective hated being doubted.

"Yes, this is the last one," the doctor replied. "He's a strong one. I was convinced he was going to collapse about five minutes ago. John was irked by this last comment. He hadn't heard any mention of concern for Sherlock's health from any of the therapists. Would they have let him simply keel over from overexertion? Did they not understand the hell he'd already been through just to get to this point? Or was he just a subject they were charged with mapping and shooting with invisible poison? John restrained himself from lashing out at the doctors for Sherlock's sake, he wouldn't want more attention drawn to him.

He was about to stop and ask Sherlock if he was okay, but the therapists had already proceeded to the next step. They marked a dot on the centre of his chest and one on his upper back. Apparently these would help with the positioning of the lung blocks. However, it didn't stop with marker. As Dr. Janssen had explained, they made small tattoos so the marks couldn't be washed off. Just another permanent disfigurement Sherlock was forced to endure. Before they could cart him off to a CT scan, John stepped in and asked if he was okay.

"Are you doing alright? You look knackered," he said.

"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted, but John noticed how his gaze went cross-eyes and was now fixed on the pinprick dot on his chest. He could tell the detective didn't like the concept of being branded.

"Please let me know if you need anything."

Sherlock simply nodded in response, and continued staring at his chest on the way to the CT. John was glad he would be lying down for this part, as he wasn't sure how much longer the detective could remain on his feet. He was totally compliant with the instructions of the radiologists, something the old Sherlock never would have done. He would've argued with every single decision they made and task they requested he complete. John wished it was because he'd accepted they knew what was best for him, but he knew it was simply because he was too exhausted to fight back anymore. He'd resigned himself to his own weakness and fatigue.

"This had better work," John muttered to himself. He didn't think he could last much longer as the friend of a cancer victim, and suspected it was ten times worse for Sherlock. John direly missed his frenetic energy on a case, racing around London after criminals. He even missed the bouts of boredom during which John would have the pleasure of discovering all sorts of 'goodies' in the fridge. He'd give anything to expedite Sherlock's return to health, but he knew there was nothing that could be done to make this go any faster. This disease would forever be a part of their lives, the potential for relapse always lurking just out of sight.

He didn't even want to consider the effect this would have on his reputation as the formidable consulting detective. He's seen his fair share of cancer survivors, and everyone—even John knew he was guilty of this—looked at them with a certain degree of fear for one of two reasons. One: the fact they'd had such a serious disease practically turned them into lepers; even though it wasn't communicable, people couldn't resist the innate revulsion. Two: they were simply terrified they'd say unknowingly make some offhand comment that would trigger internal trauma. They were aware of their own ignorance of the ordeals a cancer survivor endured, and they didn't want an emotional breakdown on their hands. There would also be the omnipresent pity. Even if he was fully in remission, the knowledge that even the great Sherlock Holmes was susceptible to the follies of the human body would make people constantly doubt his strength and resilience. There would always be the 'are you sure you're up for it?' aspect. There was nothing he could ever do to erase this blip from his personal history.

The end of the CT scan snapped John out of his thoughts, thankfully, as he wasn't sure where his overstressed brain would take him next. That marked the end of the radiation appointment; the rest was up to the radiologists. Sherlock's case was towards the top of their priority list because of the severity his leukaemia reached; the sooner he got the bone marrow transplant, the better. John suspected Mycroft also played no small part in their position at the top of the schedule. If the radiation therapists worked efficiently, he'd receive his first dose in three days. They were told he'd be receiving treatment twice a day Monday through Friday: one in the morning and one in the afternoon.

Sherlock fell asleep within seconds of returning to the room, and John simply sat and watched him breathe for several minutes. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest assured John that he was still alive and fighting. If anybody was stubborn enough to forbid his own body from killing itself, it was Sherlock Holmes.

~0~

The first day of radiation had John even more anxious than Sherlock. He'd already been moved to a special room designed to keep the environment as pathogen-free as possible. It wouldn't be critical until closer to transplant day when his immune system was at its lowest, but the room had been available and they'd seen no reason to wait. Better safe than sorry. Visitor restriction and cleaning rituals were to be instituted after the first treatment, once his immune system began the path to annihilation. He understood the necessity of the extreme precautions; he didn't want Sherlock contracting an infection, but he still didn't like the concept of such isolation. It was often detrimental towards a person's mental health to be so alone. The idea of his friend being essentially fried with dangerous energy waves greatly unnerved him. Sherlock evidently noticed his state of agitation, and John hoped he wasn't making it worse. He'd feel incredibly guilty if his own concern amplified Sherlock's, when it was crucial he stay as calm and collected as possible.

"John, are you alright?" the detective inquired.

"Yes, I'm fine," he replied quickly. Too quickly.

"No, you're not. You're pacing and picking at your fingernails."

"Nothing gets past you, does it?"

"Just an abundance of over-replicating white blood cells."

"Don't make jokes like that," John immediately insisted. He acknowledged that this was probably a coping mechanism for Sherlock, to turn his condition into something less daunting by shrugging it off, but it still made him incredibly uncomfortable to hear him speak so casually of something that had turned both of their lives upside down.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock answered, and John saw a look of genuine regret that so rarely crossed that angular face. He noticed that, fortunately, his cheekbones were slightly less pronounced than they had been, so the feeding tube was doing its job properly. As much as Sherlock protested, he couldn't argue with solid evidence. John suspected he felt much better with some nutrients in him, but knew that he'd never admit it.

Again, Sherlock insisted on walking down to radiology, despite John's protests. He'd have to remain standing incredibly still for twenty minutes straight for the treatment, and John didn't want him to go in overly exhausted. They immediately set to work upon their arrival, ensuring Sherlock wasn't wearing anything metal that would interfere with the distribution of the radiation. John watched helplessly as they positioned him in a rig that appeared not unlike a medieval torture device. He knew all the restraints were simply meant to keep him still, but he couldn't shake the image of his friend in chains. They used the tattoos on his skin to position lung blocks to protect his chest from the radiation, and John heard them ask if he wanted to listen to music while he stood there. John expected him to jump at the chance for some stimulation during the tedious and boring procedure, but he adamantly declined. John had never heard Sherlock listen to music other than his own violin playing, so he had no idea what he even liked to listen to—if anything. He deduced that he preferred classical, but hearing it now would only remind him of what he couldn't do in his current state.

But then he did something unexpected.

"Would it be possible for someone to read me a book over the intercom?" he inquired, looking at John expectantly. They'd made little progress with Murder on the Orient Express, but Sherlock did try incredibly hard to pay attention for as long as possible when John was reading. He was touched that the detective wanted to hear his voice during what would certainly be a boring and uncomfortable time.

"Yes, I think that could work," one of the technicians stated. "You want your friend here to read?" he seemed to have noticed Sherlock's focus on John when he made the request.

"I'll go get it. Be back in a minute or two." John immediately went back to the hospital room and returned to radiology as fast as possible. When he arrived, the therapists had finally finished with their final adjustments and left the room. The expression on Sherlock's face resembled one of someone facing down a firing squad. In a way, he was—only it was killing his immune system instead of his entire body. As the clicks of the machine started, John visualized the invisible radiation streaming towards his friend's body with a mission to destroy. He knew it was necessary to avoid rejection of Mycroft's bone marrow, but it still seemed like a violation of the Hippocratic oath to knowingly murder crucial cells of a patient's body.

He tried not to focus too hard on this aspect, and instead on reading aloud. He hoped Sherlock could hear him over the mutterings of the radiologists. John was glad he could provide some semblance of comfort. About ten minutes in, the radiologists went in and turned Sherlock around, positioning him just as meticulously as before. John immediately didn't like this new position, even though he knew it was necessary. Sherlock's face was hidden from him, so he couldn't discern what the detective was thinking by looking deep into those icy blue eyes. He could read more into Sherlock's thoughts with an instantaneous glance than he could with a five-minute conversation with anyone else. He could just barely make out the little black dot centred between his shoulder blades, which permanently marked him as a subject of radiation treatment.

The doctors had assured both of him that the treatment didn't make him or his clothes outwardly radioactive; it would be perfectly safe for him to be around other people afterwards—as long as they had sanitised. John was thankful for this. The first mention of radiation treatment had him fearing Sherlock would be forced into solitary confinement. He knew the detective's brain would likely tear itself apart with boredom without some form of external stimulation beyond the beating of his own heart. They'd also been warned of the potential side effects, very few of which he hadn't already experienced with the chemo. Skin irritation was the main concern, but he'd been given a certain lotion to apply if necessary.

At last, the session ended, and the doctors escorted Sherlock out of the room. Together, he and John made their way back to his room and the waiting bed. John could tell by Sherlock's posture and haggard expression that standing for such an extended period of time had drained him of what little energy he'd woken up with.

"Are you feeling okay?" John asked concernedly.

"Just tired. Then again, I'm always tired." John internally winced at the utter misery conveyed in his tone.

"Understandable," John replied, not daring to say anything else for fear he'd upset the detective. He didn't like to be reminded of his own limitations, and he knew Sherlock was even more averse to that. Sherlock re-entered the room and a nurse helped him settle into bed, where he was zonked within two minutes. John wouldn't be allowed inside without thoroughly washing up first, a routine all visitors would have to complete. John sighed with pity—he allowed himself to express it when Sherlock was asleep, knowing he'd be upset if he actually saw John feel bad for him. He couldn't imagine how despairing it would feel to be totally drained after standing for barely half an hour, and it would only get worse once everyone in his vicinity would look like they were prepared to handle something filthy and dangerous. Of course Sherlock knew the imminent gowns, gloves, and face masks were to protect him from germs the people wearing them may possess, but John knew how disconcerting it would be to witness people afraid to approach him. He noticed Sherlock slightly shivering, so he requested the nurse tuck the butchery blanket tighter around his frail form. The quilt reminded him of Lestrade and the others in Sherlock's small circle of friends. Most of them hadn't been here in a long time, and John wondered if they were afraid of what they'd find, or simply too busy to make a trip to the hospital.

He thought of poor Molly and how often Sherlock seemingly tossed her around. John admired her resilience and compassion for sticking around with a man who so blatantly rejected her advances. It was no mystery that Molly Hooper had a thing for Sherlock; all her boyfriends bore startling resemblance to his tall, lean frame and angular face, but he knew Sherlock himself would never allow himself to be distracted by such a relationship. He knew it had practically broken Molly when she first saw him like this, and he didn't want her to witness Sherlock suffering.

Uncannily, his phone dinged with a test from the pathologist while thoughts of her meandered around inside his head.

Hi John. I'm so sorry I haven't been able to be there with you, but a few of my colleagues are on holiday and their cases fall to me. I'm planning to stop by at the beginning of next week when my schedule opens up, is that alright? –Molly

Sure, that would be fine. Are you sure you're up for it? He wrote back. He knew she had been unnerved at visiting Sherlock in such circumstances, and he didn't want her to suffer any more worry.

Why? What's wrong? Did something happen? He could almost read the panic through the words on the screen, and immediately regretted his choice of words in the previous text. Everyone was currently primed to assume the worst.

No. Just didn't think you should feel obligated if you're busy. We're doing okay.

Of course I'm coming. He's my friend too.

John sensed an air of finality to that text and chose not to respond. He was glad Molly was so adamant about seeing Sherlock; knowledge that he had friends who cared about him—even if he was blind to their investment—reassured John that he hadn't befriended an absolute psychopath. However, he still worried Molly would be mortified at the new Sherlock. She hadn't seen him since they'd shaved his head or put in the feeding tube, and he feared she'd be overcome with shock. As a medical school graduate herself, she'd understand the severity and reasoning behind the intense cleaning she'd be forced to do if she wanted to enter the room. Sherlock didn't need to see an emotional reaction to his own condition; it would turn a bad situation worse. Seeing as Sherlock would probably sleep for the next two hours at least, John took the opportunity to go and grab a coffee. He hadn't slept properly in ages, and he was practically running entirely on caffeine at this point. The chaos and scrambling reminded him of being in the heat of a case, deducing and chasing criminals by Sherlock's side. He smiled fondly at the memory, and silently prayed those glorious day would someday return.


	26. Molly's Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter I posted brought this story to over 1,000 hits! I am so incredibly excited, and I thank everyone who has been reading this story.
> 
> Quick notice: I realize that certain events in this chapter (you'll know what I'm talking about when you see it) would almost certainly not be allowed to happen in a real hospital. I ask that you please bear with me and just imagine some one in a million circumstances that somehow made it possible. Even if it's not plausible, it's key foreshadowing.

The first half of the week progressed uneventfully: radiation treatment twice a day along with continued chemotherapy to combat remaining malignant blood cells. Sherlock did better than John expected he would, rarely arguing with or insulting the nurses. He still managed to make a few unwarranted deductions, which John took as a sign he was feeling more himself. Of course, he was still exhausted by normal standards, but less so than previously. The only drastic difference was the moderate skin irritation, but the prescribed lotion was incredibly helpful with this.

However, after the fourth day of treatment, Sherlock spiked a fever. John knew from his medical training that a fever in an immunocompromised patient was a dire emergency: the cause had to be identified immediately or the infection would overwhelm him at frightening speed. Blood tests for every common pathogen were administered at frantic speed, but all yielded nothing. The doctors' mild panic at the mystery cause was contagious, and John discovered his hands were trembling with worry. Sherlock insisted he didn't feel any sicker than usual, and if John ever found out he was lying about a new symptom, he swore he'd kill the man.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the fever broke and his temperature returned to normal. That in combination with the lack of any cause on any of the blood work led everyone to the conclusion that it had been some sort of fluke. They kept a close eye on him for the next two days, and reinforced the isolation procedures. No one was allowed in unless they fully scrubbed and donned a gown, gloves, and mask. This didn't deter John from spending basically all his time in the room, even if he had to change mask and gloves every hour. The effort was worth the opportunity to keep Sherlock company. When he wasn't asleep, he listened to John read their book—even though his voice was muffled by the mask-or allowed John to watch whatever crap telly he wished and took pleasure in spoiling the ending for him.

In fact, John only left to use the restroom or grab a bite to eat. Mycroft had taken to texting him every day to remind him to take care of himself. He'd asked Mycroft how his donation preparation was coming—there was some sort of treatment that stimulated marrow growth in the donor—but he was adamantly silent about whatever procedures he had endured. He did confirm that he did whatever the doctors asked him to and was on track to donate, and that was all John really needed to hear.

The morning of transplant day dawned, and John slipped out to grab a coffee to keep him awake. Sherlock had been implanted with central line a few days ago through which the new marrow would be administered. It hadn't been a long procedure, but John still shivered at the memory of the worry that being separated from Sherlock of someone else's accord had brought about. As it was, he tried to make his excursions as brief as possible. Logically, he knew that everything was under control and Sherlock wouldn't spontaneously combust in his absence, but the knowledge that he might not reach him fast enough should the impossible happen if he was out of the room nagged at the back of his head like a persistently biting flea. If only he knew how much could go wrong during a half hour coffee break.

~0~

Molly was stressed. She'd been inundated with extra cases to take up the slack of her co-workers, and the strain was slowly getting to her. She was generally pretty resilient when it came to the pressures of her job, but this in conjunction with Sherlock's illness had her hovering precariously on the edge of sanity. She'd promised John that she would come to visit today, and she wasn't going to let a monumental stack of paperwork break that oath.

She arrived at the hospital still in her lab coat and made her way to the front desk. It had been so long since she'd been here that she forgot which room Sherlock was in. She asked the man at the desk for Sherlock Holmes, and, after looking it up in the computer, promptly responded with a floor and room number. She could have sworn that wasn't the room she'd visited last time, but chalked her confusion up to her stress levels. Besides, she'd never been the best at remembering details like that. That was Sherlock's job. She followed the direction she'd been given and arrived at an unfamiliar room. Two nurses stood hovered by the door, deep in discussion. She didn't think she should bother them when they seemed so engrossed, and the room number matched the one she'd been given, so she simply stepped inside.

She'd been suspicious of John's reluctance to accept her desire to visit, but she hadn't been able to decipher the reason behind it. One glance at Sherlock's sleeping form brought the answer right to the forefront: he hadn't wanted to scare her. Things had changed since she'd last been here. The most startling was the loss of his hair and the appearance of a crescent shaped scar on his scalp. She also noticed the nasogastric tube taped to the side of his face: his nausea must have been severe enough to warrant another method of providing nutrition.

Almost as shocking was the absence of John. From what she'd heard, he hadn't left his side except to handle biological necessities like food and drink. However, she noticed a note on the bedside table that had been left for Sherlock that read: "Gone for coffee. Don't come after me." She assumed he didn't want him exhausting himself further; she knew how rough cancer treatment could be.

She sat down and pondered what to do with her time. She didn't have very long before she had to get back to work, and she didn't know if Sherlock's awakening or John's return would come before that deadline. She didn't want to wake him, so she settled for grasping his hand in hers. He looked so peaceful when he was asleep, the constant frown that the idiocy of humanity brought to his face absent. It made him look more human and less like the machine everyone suspected him of being. She just sat there in the silence for a few minutes until the beeping of her watch alerted her that she needed to get back to work.

"The dead won't examine themselves," she sighed, standing up and returning Sherlock's hand to his side. Before she left, she acted on a nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her visit felt incomplete without something more meaningful, so she leaned over and gently kissed Sherlock on the forehead. She couldn't deny that it was a something she'd always wished she could do, and she felt a little guilty at taking advantage of him like that, but she didn't regret it. He stirred slightly when her lips touched his skin, and she heard him mutter something that sounded like, "It was all of them."

She wondered what that could be about, but her time constraint didn't give her much time to dwell on it. She exited the room, finding that the two nurses were no longer standing by the door, and left the hospital. She texted John that she'd come to visit and was sorry she'd missed him, but she needed to return to work. Upon returning to the mortuary, she noticed the beginnings of a sore throat, but dismissed it as severe thirst. During a long shift, she could easily forget to drink water. Her work environment wasn't exactly conducive to a healthy appetite.

~0~

John received Molly's text explaining her rushed visit and made his way back to the room. Before entering, he removed his jacket, donned a surgical mask, washed his hands thoroughly, and put on a gown and gloves. Ever since the fever, this ritual had been mandatory for everyone who went into Sherlock's room. It was tedious, but John was glad to do it in order to keep his friend safe from harm.

Upon entering, he found that preparation for the bone marrow transplant was well underway. It wasn't complicated, more like a blood transfusion than anything, but everything had to be in order before they could inject foreign cells into a person. Sherlock appeared to have just woken up from the mild confusion evident on his face. His ice-blue eyes followed the movements of the staff around the room.

"Molly just came to visit," John informed him. "Were you asleep the whole time, or did you get to talk to her?"

"I don't remember seeing Molly, so I probably slept through it," he replied forlornly.

"That's okay. She told me she's sorry she missed us, but she had to get back to work," John explained, attempting to console him. He knew it must be incredibly upsetting for the once lively and unstoppable man to be so exhausted.

"We're ready if you are," one of the doctors, which John suspected was Janssen, but he couldn't be sure through the mask. It was incredibly how different one appeared with the entire lower half of his face obscured. Sherlock and John both nodded at him, and he proceeded to connect the central line to the bag containing Mycroft's cells. As momentous as this occasion was in the overall course of treatment, it was rather anti-climactic. John noticed Sherlock's look of disgust towards the innocuous red bag. He and his elder brother had a complicated relationship, and John knew he resented needing his sibling to fix yet another problem he'd landed himself in. John imagined what it would feel like knowing the essence of another person was flowing through his veins, and he understood Sherlock's discomfort. However, he knew how beneficial this would be towards achieving remission from the leukaemia.

"John, do you think I'll act more like Mycroft after this?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"I know you're not a doctor, but you definitely know that personality isn't transmitted through bone marrow," John chastised. "If you do, you'll go down in history as a medical anomaly. But don't pretend it changed you just for attention. Having Mycroft's marrow flowing through you will be no excuse for whatever ridiculous scheme you cook up next."

"You're less of an idiot than I give you credit for; that's exactly what I was planning to do. Right after I eat an entire cake."

"Very funny. Unfortunately, I don't think it would fit," John chuckled. He deeply regretted those words the instant they left his lips. The reference could have been interpreted differently, but of course Sherlock would immediately recognise it for what it was: a jab towards his nasogastric tube. The lightness in his eyes that had manifested while he was joking about becoming Mycroft instantly darkened into an abyss of self hatred and pity. "I-I'm so sorry," John corrected. "That was not funny and totally unwarranted." He knew his apology was feeble, but it was still better than nothing. Sherlock rolled over as far as the central line's connection to the IV pole would allow, and John got the message. He turned around and left, leaving his gown and gloves in the designated hamper.

John left the hospital, attributing his careless actions to overstress and being cooped up in this building. As much anxiety as separation from Sherlock elicited, lashing out due to cabin fever was not a preferable alternative. He told himself over and over again that nothing bad would happen in his absence, and even if it did, it wouldn't take very long for him to get back. He decided to return to Baker Street for a long, hot shower and a night's sleep in his own bed. He wished Sherlock was well enough to do the same.

~0~

Upon entering the familiar flat, John was immediately accosted by Mrs. Hudson. He understood her concern, as he'd neglected to give her regular updates like a good friend should. Whatever she knew she'd learned from Mycroft, and John presumed the man had been frustratingly vague.

"Oh John, how is he? The poor dear," she said.

"Mrs. Hudson: things are different. Not worse, per se, but different. They put a device in his head to make the chemotherapy more efficient, and they had to give him a feeding tube because he threw up anything he ate. Now, he's been irradiated and is receiving a bone marrow transplant from Mycroft. All things considered, he's doing well," John explained without revealing his frustration. He'd come here to avoid facing Sherlock's illness, yet here he was laying it all out.

"Oh goodness," she sighed. "I should really go and see him, oughtn't I?"

"Mrs. Hudson, I don't think that's necessary." John didn't want to put her through the shock of seeing Sherlock in his current state. "He's in isolation—highly restricted visitation."

"Why?"

"In order for the bone marrow transplant to take, they had to destroy his immune system so it wouldn't attack the new cells. But it also makes him incredibly susceptible to infections."

"How long will that last? He won't be like that forever, right?" John heard the concern in her voice, and his sympathy for the poor landlady grew. Sherlock was like a son to her.

"It's not permanent. It will rebuild itself with the new marrow, and he will get better," John assured, as much for himself as for Mrs. Hudson.

"Thank goodness. Is there anything I can get you?"

"No thank you. I just need to be alone for a while."

"I understand. You've been at the hospital for ages, it's about time you took a break."

John followed through with his intention of taking a hot shower, and he felt truly clean for the first time in weeks. Of course he'd been showering regularly throughout this whole ordeal, but they were always squeezed in the little time he was willing to spend away from Sherlock. After drying off and putting on clean clothes, he sat down in his chair with a newspaper. The action felt so familiar, yet so foreign due to the lack of a long, lanky figure crammed into the opposite chair, hands steepled beneath his chin.

He reassured himself that things were looking good. If Mycroft's bone marrow took, Sherlock was well on his way to remission. If he allowed thoughts of any other ending to this ordeal to invade his brain space, he was doomed. Optimism was the best remedy—both for him and for Sherlock. He wasn't giving up on his best friend, and he wouldn't allow Sherlock to give up on himself.

Satisfied that he'd chased away most of the negativity, he put the paper down and wandered up to his bedroom. It had been so long since he'd crawled between those sheets, they felt completely unknown. He actually struggled to find a comfortable position, having gotten used to sleeping upright in a hospital chair. He was used to the antiseptic smell of a hospital room and the steady beeping of the machine monitoring Sherlock's heart. The oppressive silence prevented him from falling into the bliss of sleep.

He considered returning to the hospital, but figured he wouldn't be welcome after the way he treated Sherlock. Maybe a day or two apart was exactly what they needed. The stress of the situation wasn't ideal for their friendship or their respective mental health. However, he didn't foresee falling asleep in this bed any time in the near future. He'd probably die of old age before he succumbed on that alien mattress. He saw only one other option, but he was reluctant to attempt it.

Quietly so as not to draw the attention of Mrs. Hudson, he crept back downstairs and down the hallway into Sherlock's bedroom. If anyone knew about this, they'd never let him live it down, but he would take it to his grave. The entire room screamed Sherlock. From the haphazardly strewn objects on the bed to the periodic table poster on the wall, everything reeked of the detective. John cleared the miscellaneous science equipment and books from one half of the bed and slipped beneath the blankets. When his head hit the pillow, the scent of Sherlock's shampoo washed over him. The aroma calmed his nerves, reminding him of the good old days before his best friend had gotten sick. Before he knew it, blissful sleep washed over him.

~0~

After John had unwittingly insulted him, Sherlock locked himself away from the outside world. His greatest fear had come to manifest: John found him weak and disabled. While this was true, he'd relied upon his flatmate's stubborn denial to keep himself sane. He didn't know what he would do if John didn't come back. The doctors had told him that he wouldn't be leaving this room until the marrow transplant took and his immune system began to rebuild itself. When he first heard this news, it didn't seem all that life-altering—he hadn't left the hospital since his daring escape attempts—but he soon realised that cutting out the trips down the hallway to radiology made him feel like a caged animal awaiting euthanasia.

He didn't consider himself claustrophobic, he was known for curling up into a ball as small as possible on the couch back at Baker Street, but even after just a few hours of knowing he was trapped in that room, the walls felt like they were closing in. He curled up on himself as much as the stupid central line would allow and clutched his head in his hands. The smoothness of his scalp felt despairingly alien, and he didn't dare think about what it looked like. He'd seen the way John looked at him since they'd shaved it; he rarely allowed his gaze to travel above Sherlock's nose. He ran his fingers over the raised area where the Ommaya reservoir had been implanted, scar tissue still marking the C-shaped incision and numerous puncture wounds from chemotherapy needles.

The reality of his condition deeply enraged him, and it wasn't until his fingers came away bloody that he realised he'd been clawing at his own head in distress. Somehow the physical pain relaxed him, bringing him back from the brink of despondency. He hoped he wouldn't bleed like a haemophiliac as he'd done during the early days of his sickness. Even if it stopped, the next nurse to come in would surely freak out. He could push the call button and get someone to bandage the wound for him, but he decided he'd let his own body prove its worth and clot itself. He'd wash off the dried blood later.

He must have fallen asleep because suddenly his head was clean and a small bandage had been placed over the claw marks made by his own fingernails. Had they not even bothered to wake him to ask what had happened? Or had they tried and failed? His sleeps were so deep these days as his body tried to cope with all the chemicals and foreign matter they were pumping into him. However, if they'd tried and failed to wake him, it would have raised much more of a fuss, so he doubted that was the case. Maybe cancer patients scratching themselves like that was common enough that it didn't warrant immediate interrogation.

What did concern him was how much it hurt. It was just a small scratch, yet it throbbed incessantly and burned as if someone was holding a match to his head. He gingerly touched it with a finger, and the slight contact sent a shooting sensation all across his scalp. Should he alert someone to this new development? Maybe. But he didn't want to invite the feeling of being poked and prodded like one of his own experimental specimens. He decided that he'd mention it if it got any worse, but for the time being chose to pick up the book John had left him. John had already read about half of it to him during radiation sessions, and he'd already deduced the ending, but it was better than just sitting around doing nothing. It was slow going and reading the words for himself didn't have the same effect. He missed the gentle lilt of John's voice and his fruitless attempts at forming distinct accents for each character in the novel. As much as he'd been offended by his offhand remark, he hoped his reaction hadn't driven him off permanently.

~0~

John awoke in his own bed for the first time in what felt like forever. He sat up and stretched, grateful for his first good night's sleep in a long time. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and went to the kitchen to make himself breakfast before returning to the hospital. Hopefully, Sherlock would have forgiven him by now, and if not, he'd just have to deal with it.

Mrs. Hudson was nowhere in sight, and the flat felt depressingly empty with only John to occupy it. He made himself some toast, which burnt despite his vigilance. In fact, it burned as much as one would expect after leaving it in for ten minutes, even though it had only been four. John found this incredibly strange, but attributed it to the toaster gone bad or something of the like. As a replacement, he grabbed an apple and sat down in his chair with a newspaper.

As he flipped through the pages, he noticed something across from him. Of course he noticed and abhorred the absence of Sherlock curled up in his chair, but now the entire chair itself was missing. What on Earth happened to it? How can a chair just go missing?

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called, wondering if she had moved it to vacuum beneath it or something. This seemed unlikely: at her age, she likely wouldn't be able to lift the massive armchair, much less transport it out of the room. There was no reply, which he found odd, but he didn't have time to dwell on it because the phone rang. He reluctantly got up to answer it, and blanched upon seeing the number. It was the hospital.

"Is this John Watson?" a voice asked.

"Yes, speaking. Why are you calling."

"Unfortunately, we have some bad news for you. I'm terribly sorry, but Mr. Sherlock Holmes has passed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't be a proper story without a little cliffhanger, would it? I'm super excited to see how you react to the ending of this chapter, so please react away! I can tell you that if you read this chapter closely, there are some deductions, so to speak, to be made about what the heck just happened. Thanks for reading!


	27. Worst Nightmare

"SHERLOCK!"

John woke up with a start—for real this time. He was drenched in sweat and panting as if he'd just run a marathon in the searing desert heat. Before he could control himself, guttural sobs escaped his throat. He hadn't cried like this in years; it must have been the haunting familiarity of an empty Baker Street that had triggered such a horrific nightmare.

Mrs. Hudson must have heard his agonised cries, and she came rushing in. She didn't comment on the fact that John had slept in Sherlock's bed, but he suspected she'd store that information away to use later in attempting to convince John he was gay. But she was a decent enough person to see that John's sexuality was not the primary issue here.

"Oh John, what's happened?" she questioned, perching on the end of the bed and running a small hand in circles on his sweat-drenched back. He tried to respond, but didn't think he'd be able to mutter anything discernable through the sobs. He simply shook his head sombrely.

"It's Sherlock, isn't it?" Darn Mrs. Hudson, always seeing right through him. He managed a feeble nod, and she sighed forlornly. "Can I get you anything?"

As much as John appreciated her offer, he knew there was no consoling him at this point. The only thing that would help was to see the live Sherlock and hear his beating heart. He forced himself up and hastily splashed water over his reddened face in the bathroom. The tap water mixed with his tears and ran into the sink, creating a brackish puddle that slowly seeped down the drain. He got dressed, not caring if his clothes were wrinkled or matched each other. He just needed to get back to the hospital as quickly as possible.

The absolute terror and grief that he'd felt in the nightmare haunted him the whole way up. He wished he could tell the cabbie to ignore the law and punch it, but no amount of tip would convince the driver to do something illegal. When they finally arrived, John thrust a stack of notes at the driver before busting out the door and through the front doors. He probably looked like an expectant father called in last minute from work in his frenetic dash down the hallways. The key difference, however, was that he knew exactly where he was going.

His feet guided him automatically towards Sherlock's room, and he arrived in record time. Along the way, he may have accidentally shoved some doctors and nurses, but he could not possibly care less. All that existed was John and Sherlock—Sherlock who was still alive and breathing, not dead and lifeless. He was about to bust through the door when Dr. Janssen, who happened to be standing nearby, yanked him backwards.

"Dr. Watson, what are you doing?!" he exclaimed. "You know the rules!"

"I'm sorry," John panted. In his panic, he'd totally forgotten about the isolation protocol. He realised he probably looked like a lunatic sprinting through the hospital like that, but he had more important things on his mind. "I just needed to see him. We had a bit of a fight yesterday, and I went home thinking I could actually get a good night's sleep, but it turned into a nightmare." He debated whether to omit the details of the dream, but decided that Dr. Janssen would be more understanding if he heard the whole thing. "I had a dream where you guys called me and told me Sherlock was dead." Just forming those syllables with his lips made him choke up again. 'Sherlock' and 'dead' should never be placed next to each other in a sentence unless John was sarcastically threatening him for making a mess in the flat or taking some dangerous, exciting case without him.

"Oh John, I'm so sorry. Sometimes it's easy to forget how hard these things can be on those close to the patients. If it would help, I can get you an appointment with one of our psychiatrists," he offered.

"No, but thank you for the offer. I don't have a good success rate with therapy. I just need to talk to Sherlock." Dr. Janssen evidently understood, and left John to scrub in. John wanted to expedite the routine, but his medical training wouldn't allow him to compromise a sterile environment. He would do Sherlock more harm than good by introducing him to pathogens just to hasten his entrance.

When he finished washing up, he sped into the room and almost burst into tears, but they were tears of joy. He knew the dreams hadn't been real, that Sherlock certainly wasn't dead, but the proof still elated him. It took all his willpower not to rush over and crush him in a bear hug.

"John?" Sherlock questioned blearily. "What's wrong?"

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry about what I said yesterday," John spluttered through still-falling teardrops. "I w-went home and t-tried to sleep, b-but I ended up dreaming that you, that you died. I just needed to c-come here and m-make sure it wasn't a pr-premonition or something like that."

"John, psychic dreams are a construct of human fallacy."

"I know," John smiled upon hearing such a Sherlock-worthy comment. "But I wanted to be here to remind you that you are forbidden to die, especially while I'm otherwise occupied."

"Okay."

Satisfied with that answer, John plopped down in the familiar chair and sighed. He glanced up at Sherlock again and noticed a new bandage at the top of his forehead.

"What happened to your head?" he inquired.

"Well, chemotherapy wasn't working well enough so they stuck a device under my scalp to provide more direct access to my spinal fluid and shaved my head in the process. Aesthetics weren't exactly their priority."

"You know that's not what I meant, there's a bandage there that wasn't before."

"Okay, you caught me. I cut myself."

"With what?"

"My own fingernails," he trailed off, seemingly reluctant to admit it.

"Why would you do that?"

"I was stressed out! I didn't realise I'd cut myself until afterwards, obviously."

"I can accept that, but why does it look so red and swollen if it was just a simple cut?"

"I don't know, you're the doctor."

John sensed something was up as he approached the bed to get a closer look at the wound. His doctor senses were tingling—if that was even a thing. He slowly peeled back the thin bandage and one glance told him everything he needed to know.

The cut was turning black.

Not only that, but he could already feel heat radiating from Sherlock's brow when he came close, which could mean only one thing: fever. And that was never a good sign.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath.

"What?" Sherlock inquired. "The nurses' dressing skills not up to your standards? I didn't ask them to fix it, if it makes matters any better."

"No, that's not the problem. Do you feel feverish?"

"Not really."

"Be honest. This is vital."

"Maybe a little."

"Shit."

"You keep saying that, yet you won't tell me why you're upset. Unfortunately I do not possess the contortion abilities to look at the top of my own head."

"I'll be right back. Don't touch it."

"Great, now I really want to touch it."

"If you care at all for your own health and life, you won't," John threatened. He was exaggerating slightly, but the potential urgency of the situation warranted a little fib if it would keep Sherlock safe from his own curiosity. He went straight to the nearest nurse and asked if she knew where Dr. Janssen had gone. She directed him to a ward on the other side of the floor, and he promptly followed her instructions. Fortunately, he found him relatively quickly and he wasn't in the middle of anything urgent.

"What's the matter?" he immediately asked. John never would have come looking for him if there weren't some sort of situation.

"I need you to take a look at a wound on Sherlock's head. I trust your opinion more than anyone else's in this hospital," John admitted. He could have alerted anyone to the discolouration he saw, but Dr. Janssen's assessment would be the most credible.

"When did he get a wound on his head?"

"He told me he clawed himself with his own fingernails by mistake. I think it's necrotising."

"Oh goodness, we'd better hurry."

The two of them rushed back through the corridors of the hospital, dodging personnel left and right. John knew how fast things like this could progress, and he suspected Dr. Janssen had the same fears. The scrubbing ritual seemed to take forever, but compromising the sterility of the room could make matters even worse. Dr. Janssen walked right up to the bed, took one glance at the cut, and his eyes darkened worriedly. John knew immediately that it wasn't good. Dr. Janssen tried to get Sherlock's attention, but he appeared to be in la-la-land, vacantly staring at the ceiling and mouthing words.

"Dr. Watson, can you think of any way he could have contracted an infection? Any visitors beyond you and his brother?"

John opened his mouth to respond no, but then remembered Molly's impromptu, brief visit. Was it possible that she had failed to sanitise properly? As a doctor, she would understand the reasoning behind the isolation, but had anyone actually told her about it?

"Yes. A friend of ours, Molly Hooper, stopped by a while ago. She was in and out while I was downstairs getting coffee, so I never saw her."

"Can you contact her and ask what she did while she was here and if she's been sick in the past week or so? We need all the information we can get on whatever is infecting that wound so we can treat it as efficiently as possible. I don't want to consider what could happen if this progresses."

John glanced at Sherlock and noticed he now looked extremely feverish. His cheeks were flushed deep red, and John could tell that he was now far from lucid. Either he'd been lying about how he was feeling earlier, or his condition had deteriorated at an alarming rate. His eyes were glazed over, and his gaze seemed to go straight through John. Before John could ask Sherlock if he was okay, the detective slurred: "VATICAN CAMEOS!" and collapsed against the bed, eyes rolling up in their sockets.

The sound of their old code phrase sent John into shock. He barely registered the image of Sherlock's form beginning to convulse, nor did he move to assist as Dr. Janssen sprung into action. His vision tunnelled, and the rush of emotions he'd felt during his nightmare flooded his subconscious like a river bursting free of a dam.

Vatican cameos: someone's going to die.

Was this the beginning of the end? Did John wake up from that horrible dream only for it to come true in reality? He felt himself slipping into the oblivion of pessimism, but managed to snap himself out of it. He had to help Sherlock in the here and now, not worry about the worst happening. Dr. Janssen had acted quickly, managing to stop the seizure almost as suddenly as it had began, but a new battle was beginning: the quest for the cause. They needed to figure out what had infected him and fast. In this state, a common cold virus could prove fatal in a matter of days.

John hadn't noticed this before, but his oxygen saturations were already dipping, meaning his lungs were struggling to move enough air on their own. Other organ systems would be next. It was cases like these that emphasized the vitality of every system of a human body working seamlessly together; if one faltered, the rest of them suffered also.

John glanced at Dr. Janssen and noticed he'd already starting drawing tubes of blood for testing. A glance passed between the two doctors, revealing their mutual deep concern. They both knew how quickly this could go south, and exactly how far south it would reach.

Not knowing what else to do while the pathology lab ran its tests, John decided to call Molly in an attempt to gather leads on the cause of the infection. He was worried about what he would say to her about Sherlock's sudden turn, so he rehearsed a detached summary of the situation over and over again in his head. But when she picked up the phone and he heard her familiar voice, his emotions washed over him like a tidal wave. He blubbered unceasingly, tears streaming down his face, "Molly, it's Sherlock, we don't know how, but—but he's got an infection now, he scratched himself in the head earlier, and I saw it's already turned black, and I don't know what he could have been exposed to or how, but he had a seizure and still hasn't woken up, and I don't know what to do, the lab tests haven't come back, and I thought since you saw him recently you might have an idea as to what he might have, Molly, please help." He should have been embarrassed that he broke down so openly, but he honestly didn't care at this point.

"John, I'm so sorry! That's awful!"

"We tried so hard to prevent this, he was in isolation and everything!"

"Wait—what?" Molly suddenly sounded panicked.

"He was in isolation because the preparation for the marrow transplant completely wiped out his immune system." John heard the woman gasp on the other line.

"No one told me that."

"Molly, do you know something I don't know?"

"Um, I may have visited him without following isolation procedure. Nobody warned me. I feel so terrible, John, what if I caused this?!"

"Molly, please don't blame yourself. It could have come from anywhere," John assured her. In all likelihood, it had been her visit that introduced the pathogen, but intense guilt on her part wouldn't help Sherlock or anyone."

"John, it's all my fault! Where else could he have contracted something? Oh, I'm such an idiot!"

"Molly, calm down. What's done is done. The best thing we can do now is figure out what this thing is and treat for it."

"You're right," the pathologist sighed. "I'm so sorry." With that, she abruptly hung up the phone. John felt bad for her; she always meant well, and he knew she cared deeply for Sherlock. Yet some small part of him was voraciously angry with her for breaching the sterile defences that were supposed to keep his best friend safe. That part of him wondered what things would look like right now if Molly had never come to visit. Sherlock would've continued to receive Mycroft's marrow, and then they'd wait for his numbers to come up, indicating his body was producing new, healthy cells. Instead, they were on the brink of a full-blown fight for his life.

~0~

Sherlock was afraid. He'd never experienced such a sensation before. One moment he was fine—well, his head hurt and he did feel a bit feverish, but fine was a relative term given the circumstances—and the next everything went blurry. He was still conscious, and he heard what was going on around him, but the neurological pathways that allowed him to comprehend his surroundings seemed to be broken. He distinctly remembered his own voice shouting 'vatican cameos' before everything went black.

Just as earlier when he'd been forcibly kicked out of his mind palace, this time he was shoved into it. It felt like his own brain took his consciousness and tossed it into a prison cell, locking the door firmly behind him. However, the mind palace was on the verge of crumbling into oblivion. Thunder roared in the background and flashes of lightning periodically lit up the windows. The storm was so violent that the ground literally shook beneath his feet, strewing meticulously sorted papers and books across the floor like marbles dumped from a cup.

Sherlock himself struggled to keep his footing as the floor trembled and quaked. He hugged the wall to stable himself and watched helplessly as the contents of his mind palace were hopelessly shuffled about. It would take him ages to get everything back in order if the tremor ever let up.

Fortunately, a calming whoosh settled over the mind palace, and the quake ceased suddenly. Sherlock took a deep breath and glanced over the destruction that had been wreaked over his beloved creation. Doors had flown open, so nothing was even guaranteed to be in the right room anymore. He bent down and picked up a small manila folder that had settled at his feet and opened it. He glanced at the tab, noticing it was labelled, 'Solar System.' No wonder the folder was so thin.

He tossed it back onto the floor amid the rest of the clutter and made his way through the room. He decided that he didn't want to deal with such a catastrophe right now; he'd rather return to the real world. At least John was there, even if everything else about reality sucked.

He'd been in and out of his mind palace hundreds, if not thousands, of times before, and he'd never had any trouble transitioning. It was like a switch he could flip in his head that allowed him to escape into the depths of his brain and resurface again. This time, however, he couldn't figure out how to leave. The doorway out of the mind palace was shut firmly. Sherlock panicked; he'd never been trapped in his mind palace before.

He wondered, "Am I dead?" Did the thunderstorm reflect something disastrous that had struck his physical body and killed him? Would he spend eternity wandering these endless halls and cleaning up the mess the storm had made? Did he really never get to say goodbye to John?

~0~

"Strep?" John was flabbergasted. Strep throat was a practically benign infection that children got. Maybe they'd miss a few days of school, but antibiotics always fixed it right up. He didn't consider what happened if the bacteria ended up somewhere other than the pharynx.

"Yes. Group A Streptococcus—and an invasive case of that. The bacteria must have been on his scalp, and the break in the skin allowed it into the bloodstream. Without a functioning immune system, the pathogens can run rampant throughout his entire body," Dr. Janssen explained.

"What happens now?"

"We flood him with antibiotics to target the strep. Hopefully, we caught it in time."

"And if we didn't?"

"Dr. Watson, I wish I could tell you exactly how this was going to go. I wish I could affirm that everything's going to be fine, but the reality is that we just don't know. It's all a waiting game."

John hated waiting games. He bid Dr. Janssen goodbye and returned to Sherlock's side. After the seizure, he'd refused to wake up. They'd assessed him on the GCS, with frightening results. John had watched helplessly as they stimulated him to look for verbal, eye-opening, and motor responses. He abhorred the fact that pain was the stimulus they mainly used, and—even though it meant a less severe coma—he winced when Sherlock forcibly flinched away from the hand pinching his fingernail. He elicited no verbal responses, and his eyelids didn't even flutter. Overall: a bit not good.

Even more concerning was his worsening breathing. Despite the continued supply of supplemental oxygen, his sats hovered just above dangerously low. As hospital staff came in and out over the next several hours, John heard whispers of hypoxemia and ventilation. He himself knew that if they didn't fix something soon, his organs could suffer damage from lack of oxygen. If he didn't show signs of improvement soon, John feared for his life.

~0~

Sherlock's frustration grew as he realised the full scope of the situation he was in. His consciousness was trapped in the mind palace, but he could still hear everything going on around his physical body. Despite how muffled and distant the voices sounded, he could make out enough to deduce what was going on. Apparently he was in a coma, and nothing they did could wake him up. He'd heard of the Glasgow Coma Scale before, and evidently he was failing miserably. He heard them asking him if he could open his eyes, wiggle his pointer finger or toes and all that, but he couldn't seem to work the connections from his mind to his body, and it was incredibly aggravating. But something did happen when they decided to painfully pinch his fingernail. The shock jolted him enough that his arm muscles responded and jerked away from the hurt. He sighed with relief; any sign that let him know he wasn't totally paralysed was welcome.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" an unfamiliar voice asked. "If you can hear me, please let me know."

"Yes!" he shouted. "I can hear you, but this stupid transport won't listen to me!"

"No verbal response whatsoever," he heard the voice sigh.

"I am responding! Why won't you listen?!"

Evidently, the relentless screaming of his mind-palace-self didn't translate into reality. His real mouth and eyes remained stubbornly shut. He heard the final number: 6, and then all the voices faded into the distance. Annoyed at his body for betraying him, he grunted in frustration and plopped down into a fat armchair after righting it. He gazed once again at the desolation that had once been his beautifully organised mind palace. He guessed it was symbolic of the destruction the infection was inflicting on his internal organs.

Never before had he felt so hopelessly stuck. He wondered if this was what non-verbal people felt like every day: unable to communicate their thoughts to the outside world. He couldn't imagine dealing with such exasperation constantly. What if this is how things would be from now on? Would he be stuck here forever, those in the real world giving up on him as a comatose vegetable? He rested his chin on his hand in despondence. He'd go mad stuck in here for eternity.

"Sherlock?" He recognised this voice. The worried rasp combined with the smooth, calm tone was unmistakably John. "You didn't respond to any of the doctors or nurses, but I'm holding out hope that's just because you're an arrogant arse who thinks himself above communicating with them. But I'm asking you to please—for me—let me know you're in there."

Sherlock could hear the desperation in his voice, and it pained him. He sensed John's hand clasp his own. Though coated in a latex glove, he still revelled in the closeness and comfort his grip provided. If he could just twitch a finger or flutter an eyelid, he could tell John he was here, somehow assuage his concern. He focused all his willpower on his left hand, the one locked in John's embrace, and tried to force the muscles to contract even slightly. He tried until he thought his brain would burst with the effort, but nothing happened. He growled in anger at his own failing transport.

"Please?" Sherlock cringed at the crack in John's voice. He sounded like a man broken beyond repair. He was touched that the doctor was so affected by his own absence; he'd spent the entire course of his illness in shock at the dedication John had shown to him. He thought back to the first days when he was convinced everyone he'd ever known would abandon him to the clutches of leukaemia now that he was useless to them. He wasn't used to affection from anyone other than his family, and he was surprised at how wonderful it felt to know he was loved.


	28. From Bad to Worse

When John had texted about the new development, Mycroft had initially been in disbelief. He'd been certain there was nowhere left to go but up, but evidently, he'd been horribly wrong. He knew they'd put precautions in place to prevent infections, but they'd obviously failed. This is what he got for putting faith in others for the security of his little brother. If he wanted it done right, he'd have to do it himself.

Despite outward appearances, Mycroft cared deeply for his sibling and would do anything to protect him. Yet John had been absolutely right in his deduction of Mycroft's reluctance to donate bone marrow. He knew how most people already viewed him: callous and cold-hearted, yet always successful in whatever he set out to do. He didn't want to try and save his baby brother, only to fail, but it seemed that was exactly where things were headed if they didn't manage to get this infection under control.

The process of donating marrow hadn't been pleasant (Mycroft had never possessed his brother's indifference towards needles) and he'd hate to see that effort yield nothing. Worse, he'd hate to see that effort result in Sherlock's death. Anyone could have easily pieced together the different chain of events that may have resulted had Mycroft refused to be a donor. Since there were no other viable donors in the registry, they wouldn't have prepped him for a transplant, so they wouldn't have irradiated his immune system. Without that 'treatment' he might've had enough defence to fight off strep bacteria. Thus, Mycroft couldn't help but blame himself for the dramatic turn of events.

Though he did have work to do, he put everything on hold to visit his ailing brother. He'd used his job as an excuse to avoid reminding himself of his brother's precarious state enough times; he needed to face the music. He had his most trusted driver take him to the hospital. Upon arriving, he squeezed the handle of his ever-present umbrella tightly and braced himself. His shoes clicked on the stark tile floors as he made his way to the familiar room.

The sanitary measures were still in place, so he followed the instructions before cautiously entering the room. He'd been forced to leave his umbrella outside, and he felt naked and exposed without its familiar grip in his hand. Immediately, his gaze fell upon John, gloved and masked as per protocol, but with his head resting on the bed by Sherlock's side, clearly fast asleep. Based on his positioning, he'd evidently conked out grasping Sherlock's immobile hand in his.

Unsure whether to wake the doctor or not, he simply stood there watching the two of them for a few moments. He noticed a full oxygen mask had been placed over Sherlock's mouth and nose, fogging and clearing steadily with his breathing, which seemed awfully slow and laboured by Mycroft's standards. He knew Sherlock had been almost entirely unresponsive to verbal or physical interaction, but still thought it worth a try. If he'd answer to anyone, it would be his big brother, right?

"Hello Sherlock," he greeted a bit awkwardly. He had fundamentally no experience with comatose people, and was also unused to speaking through a mask. He didn't exactly expect an immediate response, but was still unnerved at his utter motionlessness. If it weren't for the slight rise and fall of his chest and reassuring beep of the cardiac monitor, he'd barely be discernable from a corpse. He took a few steps closer and took Sherlock's other hand in his own. He didn't know if he could feel it, but it was as much for his own comfort as it was for Sherlock's. As much as he hated to admit it, worry was eating him up from the inside out. He'd actually lost significant weight since this ordeal had begun, and was almost disappointed that Sherlock wasn't there to provide a snide remark.

"Yes, this is what it takes to actually get me to drop a few pounds," he chuckled to himself. Sherlock would have had endless fun poking fun at his lack of willpower. He circled his thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand, hoping the gesture brought some comfort—if the sensory stimulus even penetrated the thick fog of coma.

"Mycroft?" John's voice, hoarse from sleep, questioned. He slowly uncurled himself from leaning against the bed and stretched out his back.

"Yes?" he replied.

"Just didn't believe you'd actually go through the effort to be allowed entrance to this sanctum of sterility. Not that it did him much good," he remarked sadly.

"I'm appalled you think so little of me and my capacity for affection for my own family."

"You're not one to express anything resembling affection." Mycroft couldn't blame John for this assumption, but raised the hand clasped in Sherlock's as proof he did know how to 'caress' and whatnot. He lowered his brother's arm back to the bed, hating the lifelessness of the limb. John snapped out of his post-sleep tiredness and stood up hurriedly. He demanded, "Let me see that." He marched over to the other side of the bed and gently picked Sherlock's hand back up off the sheets. He stared at it intently, and Mycroft watched his eyes quickly change from displaying concern to terror. He followed John's gaze and his eyes picked up the purplish-black shade of his brother's fingertips.

At the same time, an alarm on one of the monitors sounded, causing both Mycroft and John to startle. John dropped Sherlock's arm in his fright, and it dropped to the side of the bed, hanging limp like the arm of a ragdoll. Mycroft and John both turned their gazes to the blaring monitor, and Mycroft heard John curse heatedly under his breath. Several nurses burst into the room at the racket of the machine and quickly assessed the situation.

"Oxygen saturation has fallen," John said breathlessly.

"He's not moving nearly enough air," one of the nurses remarked. "I think we need to intubate."

Mycroft knew enough about medicine to deduce that this was not a good thing. He knew intubation was a pretty drastic measure to aid a failing respiratory system. He and John were forced into a corner of the room as the nurses took action. He watched helplessly as the rather invasive procedure was conducted. The oxygen mask was taken off and Sherlock's mouth was forced open. The nurse worked efficiently, her practised hands expertly manipulating the tube down into his brother's throat.

"I think he needs ITU," another of the nurses said. "And I am not liking the looks of that scalp wound."

John further evidenced her claim by pointing out the blackening of his fingers, "His skin looks like it's starting to necrotise."

"Damn, we need to move quickly. Isn't he already on antibiotics for strep A?" she asked.

"Yes, but obviously they're not good enough," the nurse in charge of intubation stated. "We can get him on a vent when we get there, let's go." She'd attached one of those large, balloon-shaped bags to the endotracheal tube and rhythmically squeezed it as the other nurses unlocked the wheels of the bed and promptly exited the room.

Mycroft and John were left standing bewildered and shaken at what had just occurred. A quick glance passed between them, and Mycroft read the panic etched on the doctor's features. They were in for a long ride.

~0~

When he first heard his brother's familiar voice, Sherlock groaned. The last thing he wanted when he was trapped inside his own body was Mycroft and his ceaselessly irritating mannerisms. Even if he could, he didn't think he'd want to answer to his brother. As it was, he was helpless to resist as another hand—no doubt belonging to the British government himself—picked up his free hand. He wanted to yank his fingers away, but knew any attempt to communicate with his body was futile. He resigned himself to focus on his left hand, still clutched in John's grasp. Knowing the doctor, he'd fallen asleep at Sherlock's side. Sherlock hoped he would wake up before his back became too sore from the awkward position.

"Yes, this is what it takes to actually get me to drop a few pounds," Sherlock heard Mycroft say. He wasn't sure if that comment was made under the assumption that Sherlock could hear him, or that he was completely dead to the world. Had Mycroft actually lost weight because of this? Sherlock didn't believe it, but he couldn't open his eyes to assess his brother for himself.

"Brother, if this is what it takes, I should get leukaemia more often," Sherlock muttered to himself. "Those god-forsaken diets never did you any good."

A short while later, Sherlock heard John wake and a curt conversation pass between the two men. His left hand felt cold without John's clasped around it. As they talked, Sherlock's mind began to go fuzzy. The surrounding mind palace blurred in and out of focus, and he felt like he was going to faint. He faintly heard an alarm blaring in the distance, probably another part of his worthless body ceasing to function as it should. He heard frantic voices, but could no longer distinguish what they were saying. The fogginess in his vision increased, and he collapsed to the paper-strewn ground. He felt his hands and legs literally sinking into the floor as if it were quicksand—anything was possible in the mind palace. He'd sunk through the hardwood up to his neck when he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his throat. They must have done something drastic to his real body, most likely an endotracheal tube. His mind-palace-self gagged, feeling like his airway had entirely sealed up. He coughed and heaved violently, but knew this action would not translate into his real form. That body was failing, totally unresponsive to whatever his brain told it to do. He had a faint sensation of the ground moving beneath him, like the beginning of a roller coaster ride, before he fell through the floor completely, descending into a deeper abyss of his mind palace.

~0~

John futilely attempted to steady his breathing as he and Mycroft followed Sherlock and his cortege of nurses to ITU. He'd seen Sherlock's fingers, and he knew how quickly necrotising fasciitis could spread, and how much devastation it could wreak. He'd ditched the mask at the door to Sherlock's old room, his panicky breaths not drawing enough air through the fabric. They waited outside the entrance to ITU and were met by Dr. Janssen.

"What happened?" he questioned unhesitatingly.

"His oxygen levels plummeted, and his head and fingertips are turning black," John explained. Mycroft just stood there looking lost and bewildered.

"Damn," Dr. Janssen replied. "I thought we would be okay, starting him on antibiotics so soon."

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't do anything by halves," Mycroft remarked.

"Evidently. I'll look into new drugs to try and combat this infection." With that, he promptly left the two men to their deepening anxiety. They waited for what seemed like aeons, tapping their feet, until one of the nurses told them they were allowed inside. She guided them towards Sherlock's new position in the extensive ITU ward. John rushed to his side, taking in the new machinery now keeping him alive. The mechanical hiss of a ventilator sounded menacing, like the breathing of a deadly predator on the hunt for its next victim. The endotracheal tube was securely taped to his face, which when coupled with the nasogastric tube still stuffed up his nose, almost entirely obscured his face from view. A twelve-lead ECG had been added to closely monitor his heart rate in case the streptococcus decided to strike there next.

John closely examined the wound on top of his head, finding the blackness indicating infection had spread almost all the way from his eyebrows to the small bump of the Ommaya reservoir. Knowing what he did about necrotising fasciitis, this expansion could have occurred in a very short amount of time. It had been the size of a dime barely twelve hours previously. He glanced again at his right hand, the smallest finger already deep onyx-coloured all the way to the second knuckle. If something wasn't done soon, his limbs would be eaten away as the infection advanced along them. John wasn't sure if he was hallucinating, or if the bacteria were actually so aggressive, but he swore he saw the black patches expanding before his eyes. Where it had barely been past the nail bed just a few minutes previously, the mark on his right ring finger had already reached the first knuckle.

"John?" Mycroft inquired. The man was usually so high-and-mighty, well aware of his superior intelligence. However, the field of medicine was one of very few in which John outranked him in knowledge and experience. He was slightly shaken at being addressed in such a tone by Mycroft Holmes, but turned his head regardless to acknowledge his question. "Can you explain what's happening?"

John had never heard him sound so helpless and confused before. Any doubt he'd ever had about Mycroft's sentiment towards his younger brother disappeared as quickly as a flash of lightning. He took a deep breath to steady himself and explained, "The streptococcus bacteria are essentially eating away at his body. You may have heard me use the term necrotising fasciitis, which means it's attacking the fascia, or connective layer that keeps the skin attached. The black colour is dead tissue: literally rotten flesh. It's also affected his lung function, which impairing his ability to breathe on his own." As John laid it all out, he choked on the last several words. He'd already known what was going on, but summarising the severity of his best friend's current state made it more real. The figure in the bed in front of him was teetering precariously on the edge of death.

Mycroft didn't verbally reply to his explanation, but nodded to himself and resumed staring into space. John wondered if he was figuring out how to deal with the familial matters should the worst happen. The two men sat in silence for hours, lulled into a trance-like state by the beeping of the cardiac monitor and hiss of the ventilator. Eventually, Dr. Janssen joined them and conducted his own assessment of the extent of Sherlock's infection. John violently shook his head to wake himself up and followed the doctor's careful movements. In that amount of time, the darkness had crept a centimetre or two up his fingers, and the splotch on his head had grown to reach the Ommaya reservoir site.

"As you can see, this is progressing alarmingly fast. The antibiotics are failing, and a lot of tissue had already died. I'm afraid there's not much we can do at this point beyond changing the medication and debriding," Dr. Janssen explained.

"Debridement?" John knew that was usually the protocol for dead tissue, but still hadn't wrapped his head around the concept that his best friend's flesh was literally being eaten away.

"Yes. Preferably as soon as possible. Since he was intubated, his oxygen levels improved dramatically, and if we can get an available OR, I'd like to have it done today before it advances any further. Our goal is to stop it in its tracks."

"Okay. Do you know how much tissue you'll have to take?" John questioned.

"That's up to the surgeon. I'm sure he'll do his very best to get all the infected tissue while preserving as much of the healthy part as possible, but I must warn you that it won't be pretty."

John had seen his fair share of devastating wounds on the battlefield of Afghanistan. Between burns, traumatic amputations, and gunshot wounds, he'd long abandoned any squeamishness around blood and gore. However, he'd never seen extensive debridement wounds in person before, only pictures in medical textbooks. He knew they often looked counterintuitive, opening up a gaping hole in the skin where it had once been solid, but he knew it was necessary. Leaving dead tissue behind would only result in more infection. Still, he wasn't sure he could handle witnessing such devastation on his Sherlock. His subconscious conjured an image of what it might look like when the surgeons cut away the dead flesh on his scalp, and he screwed his eyes shut in horror. Unfortunately, that did little to help, as the image resided inside his own head.

He tried forcibly to banish the thought, but every time he thought he succeeded, he caught another glimpse of Sherlock's pale form, which brought it right back to the forefront of his brain. He was so focused that he must not have registered the passing of time, as Dr. Janssen returned far too soon to announce that an OR was available and they'd be taking Sherlock immediately. John said his goodbyes as he was wheeled away, knowing this might be the last time he'd see Sherlock in one piece for quite a while.

John continued to sit in the ITU, staring at the empty space where Sherlock's bed had been. He found himself rooted to that spot, unable to move until Sherlock returned to him alive. Mycroft had left for a coffee break ages ago, and John suspected he just needed a break from the stifling hospital room. The agony of not knowing was far worse than any disfigurement they could inflict upon his best friend. No one took the time to update him, so for all he knew, they were sending him down to the morgue and arguing over who got the difficult and depressing job of breaking the news to the friends and family.

~0~

Sherlock awoke in another area of the mind palace. He vaguely remembered the illusion of sinking through the floor, and the fuzziness in his brain that had preceded it, but the feeling had vanished. He could tell that whatever had gone wrong with his transport had been fixed somehow. Waking up in another spot, he was concerned that he'd no longer be able to hear what was going on in his surroundings, but that worry was soon assuaged.

"John?" he heard Mycroft ask. He couldn't believe the vulnerability the presented itself in that one-word croak. "Can you explain what's happening?"

Sherlock listened intently, staring at the spot on the ceiling from where the voices seemed to be coming. He heard John detail everything that had gone wrong, and anger at his own body for failing to do its job so miserably rose up and threatened to burst from his every pore. He'd heard of necrotising fasciitis before, and he knew the kinds of wounds it could cause. He wished his mind palace extended to the rest of his body so he could find a bacterium and punch it into submission. If his immune system couldn't do it, then someone had to fight off the invaders.

The voices fell silent for ages, and Sherlock found nothing better to do than sift through the information stored around him. He found a folder labelled "Happy Memories with Mycroft" and rifled through its contents, smiling to himself as he recalled that simpler time. When he was little, before Mycroft went off to university, they'd gone on adventures in the woods around their house. Those were some of Sherlock's favourite recollections of his childhood. He didn't know how long he spent soaking up the joy of the past, but he was brought back to reality by the arrival of another voice.

"As you can see, this is progressing alarmingly fast. The antibiotics are failing, and a lot of tissue had already died. I'm afraid there's not much we can do at this point beyond changing the medication and debriding." Sherlock thought he recognised the voice as Dr. Janssen's, but he couldn't be sure without the visual of his face to match. He knew that whatever was happening to him was awful, and he wished he could see for himself what he'd become. On second thought, he was glad he was trapped on the inside. He didn't think he could bear to watch himself shrivel up and die.

John and Dr. Janssen started discussing the process of debridement and the amount they'd have to remove from Sherlock's body. Sherlock was mortified at the casualness of their discussion about ripping chunks of flesh out of him. He thought something so drastic warranted a less removed tone. They sounded like they were talking about rearranging furniture, or something equally less important than him.

"Okay. Do you know how much tissue you'll have to take?" he heard John ask.

"That's up to the surgeon. I'm sure he'll do his very best to get all the infected tissue while preserving as much of the healthy part as possible, but I must warn you that it won't be pretty."

"Hey! Don't I get a say in this?" Sherlock shouted, knowing his efforts to communicate were in vain. Since he was in a coma, all of his medical decisions fell to Mycroft. As much as Sherlock abhorred the concept of his big brother literally controlling his life, he knew that he'd defer to John the majority of the time. Sherlock trusted John to do what was best for him; to do what Sherlock would want for himself. If worst came to worst, John would tell them to pull the plug, while Mycroft would likely keep him on the brink of life out of guilt and fraternal sentiment.

He again felt the slight quake in the ground signalling he was being rolled somewhere else. He heard John deliver a choked goodbye, and wished he could reassure him that he'd come out the other side, even if he was hideously disfigured. After hearing John discuss the extent of his infected flesh, he was glad he wouldn't be able to see the horror that would remain once some insufferable surgeon chopped it away.


	29. Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're squeamish, I'd be cautious about reading this chapter.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Unequivocally, absolutely nothing could have prepared him for this.

The thing that was wheeled back into the room nearly five hours later was nothing like his Sherlock. Nothing.

From the chair next to him, he heard a strangled gasp escape Mycroft's throat, but it was nothing compared to John's own internal screaming. The image before him was actually worse than the nightmares he'd conjured up in his mind beforehand, and those had been sufficiently ghastly to make him sick to his stomach. He felt bile rising in his throat, and barely managed to force the sick feeling down. Mycroft, on the other hand, lacked such self control, and John felt a quick breeze as the British government sprinted out of the room and down the hallway. He'd never seen Mycroft run from anything, but nothing was more worthy of fleeing than the sight before him.

He clenched his eyes shut and inhaled deeply, then slowly letting the breath escape his lips to calm himself. In order to take it all in, he started with the least appalling and grotesque wounds the surgeons had created. Although all of the incisions were covered with thin antimicrobial dressings, John could still make out the gory details. His fingers were macabre patchworks of exposed muscle and tissue, almost as if some small animal had taken bites out of each of his digits. Those long, elegant violinist's fingers... utterly destroyed. His right little finger was so ruined that John couldn't believe it remained attached to the rest of his hand. Hopefully, preserving them hadn't sacrificed the removal of any dead tissue.

He braced himself to adjust his gaze to Sherlock's head, now completely unrecognizable. The wound on his scalp was indescribable, its severity beyond words John possessed in his vocabulary. Sherlock could have come up with some fascinating, if disturbing, adjectives, but he was the subject in this instance instead of the astute observer.

Where once had been blackened flesh, unnerving and gross in its own right, was now an enormous, weeping lesion. The entire frontal right side of his head, from his eyebrow to the crown of his head, was a gaping hole. Some areas were so cut away that John could make out the alabaster sheen of his skull.

"Oh Sherlock what have they done to you?" John muttered, finally averting his gaze. Some sadistic part of his was fascinated with the horrific nature of the wounds and found it difficult to look away. The reasonable part of him—fortunately the majority—was mortified that something so terrible could have happened to Sherlock, and couldn't bear to watch any longer.

John Watson buried his face in his hands and wept.

~0~

The unsteady rolling feeling persisted, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to turn around and return to John. Alas, he was powerless to stop the people carting him off to be hacked to pieces like a pig at a butcher's shop. When the moving finally stopped, Sherlock braced himself for what was inevitably ahead. He didn't know enough about medicine to know if they'd trust his coma to keep him asleep and immobile, or if they'd still use anaesthesia. They had no way of knowing that his mind-palace-self could feel his real body. He didn't expect they'd had many patients as mentally advanced as himself.

His questions were answered when he heard people meandering around him and voices requesting drugs he'd never heard of before. A hazy feeling washed over him, and he felt the overwhelming urge to keel over where he was and take a long, long nap.

"No, I must get back to John," he told himself, but even that mantra wasn't strong enough to make him resist the pull of the anaesthetic agents. His mind-palace-self collapsed onto the floor, and his vision winked out instantaneously.

When he awoke, he had no idea of the time that had elapsed. Had it been minutes? Hours? Days? The mind palace had no sense of day or night, and therefore no way of telling time even vaguely. One of the first feelings he registered was the pain. Despite the residual haze from whatever they'd given him, he was distinctly aware of shooting, stabbing feelings in his fingers and head. His head in particular felt lighter, somehow naked. His fingers felt like they'd been impaled with dozens of tiny needles.

"What did you do to me?!" he shouted futilely, shaking his fists at the ceiling. "I didn't give you permission to chop me to pieces! At least some pain medication would be decent, my brain is still in here, you know!"

He sighed and slumped against the wall. He felt despondent. He was never getting out of this place. His mind palace had once been an escape from the mundane annoyances of the real world, but now it was his prison. He'd be locked up with his own memories for all eternity.

Suddenly, he felt like the floor had turned to quicksand beneath him again. If previous experience was anything to go by, this meant he was getting worse. The lower floors of the mind palace were closer to death, but he didn't want to die. He couldn't leave John like this, succumbing to the relentless assault of some militia of single-celled organisms. He fought against the tugging sensation, flailing his limbs in an attempt to stay afloat. He thought of John, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Lestrade, of how crushed they'd be if he just gave up and sank to the bottom.

"Oh Sherlock what have they done to you?"

"JOHN!" he shrieked, struggling even more determinedly. He managed to keep his head above the floor for a few fleeting seconds before he was banished into the depths. The last thing he heard before his head fell through was John's anguished sobbing.

~0~

John didn't know how long he sat there and cried, but he'd shed enough tears to feel physical symptoms of dehydration. He knew he should probably get a drink to replenish his body, but he couldn't bring himself to move. He feared if he picked his head up from his palms, he'd catch another glimpse of Sherlock.

His phone buzzed, and he considered not answering it. However, he'd never been one to not respond to someone's text. He was paranoid that the one time he decided not to reply, it would be an emergency. Glancing at the screen, he saw it was from Lestrade.

Sorry I haven't been there in a while, extremely busy with work. We need our consulting detective back. You and Mycroft haven't been updating me, so I just wanted to check in that everything was ok? –GL

"No! Nothing is okay!" John shouted towards the phone clutched in his hand. Deep down, he knew the DI couldn't possibly know any better, and John should feel guilty for leaving him in the dark. He'd been so lost in his own sorrow that he'd totally forgotten to let other friends know what was happening. Typing it out would make it that much more real, and John didn't want to cause them pain. But Greg was Greg, he'd been by Sherlock's side as much as possible throughout this entire ordeal, and he deserved to know the truth.

Resigning himself to the task at hand, John typed out a brief explanation. Even slightly sugar coated, the words spelled out such a horrific message that he hiccupped with grief.

Greg, I'm really sorry. I've been so busy worrying that I neglected to let you know what was going on. It's bad. He fell into a coma a short while ago, now on ventilator. Flesh-eating bacterial infection of streptococcus group A. Don't come, you won't want to see it.

John, no way am I leaving you alone to deal with this. I'm taking off early and heading over there ASAP. Don't bother arguing.

As much as John appreciated the DI's support, he truly didn't want him to come. John didn't want to bear witness to Lestrade's reaction to Sherlock's current state. He feared he'd lose it completely watching the imminent expression of horror creep across his face. Mycroft's reaction had been bad enough, and the elder Holmes was one of the most stoic and composed people John had ever known.

Despite this, he was somewhat thankful that supportive company was on its way. He desperately needed a shoulder to cry on. His own palms were dried out and grimy from all the teardrops that had fallen into them. John himself was emotionally exhausted, worn out from grief and despair. He somehow convinced himself that Greg could handle the shock; that he'd remain stalwart and be able to support John instead of the other way around.

The DI sent several updates regarding his ETA in the time leading up to his arrival at the hospital. John hoped he'd taken a cab and wasn't texting and driving. He stood up and paced back and forth beside the bed, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. The rhythmic passing of the tiles beneath his feet soothed him and helped him prepare for the turmoil ahead.

Just arrived. On my way in.

John steadied his breathing and braced himself. Lestrade would have to inquire about Sherlock's new location, so he had a few precious minutes before all hell broke loose. He wasn't sure if he'd break down when Lestrade arrived, or if Lestrade would break down when he saw Sherlock, but he didn't think he was ready for either outcome. He ceased his pacing and stood rooted to one spot, staring at the opposite wall. He probably looked like he was having an absence seizure, but if he didn't focus, his gaze would wander and... he didn't want to think about it.

He heard footsteps approaching the ITU and his neck turned of its own accord to glance at the new arrival. It was Lestrade. John bit his lip as the DI approached, unsure if he'd yet deduced that the dissected figure in the adjacent bed was his consulting detective. As he got closer, John saw the exact moment in time when the realisation hit him, and it was dreadful.

First, his eyes widened in shock that a person who looked like that could actually be alive. He jaw fell slightly agape and then, his gaze fell to John, eyes swimming with distress and pity. He embraced John in a strong bear hug as soon as he was within reach. How did the detective inspector always know exactly what John needed? They stood there for ages, arms grasped tightly around each other. John held onto Greg like he was his last anchor to reality, and he buried his face in the DI's coat. No more tears fell—he'd run out—but he drily sobbed, overwhelmed with the stress of the events that had occurred.

Lestrade rubbed his hand in comforting circles across John's back, allowing him to cry it out. A human embrace felt so much more welcoming, and John gradually relaxed and his cries dwindled. Once he'd composed himself, he released Lestrade and looked him in the eye. He could read all the unasked questions at the forefront of his brain even before the DI asked them.

"Jesus Christ, John. This is medicine?" he choked.

~0~

John and Lestrade sat with bated breath. John knew that recurrence of infection was highly possible during the first few days if the surgeons hadn't removed enough tissue or the bacteria hadn't been subdued by the antibiotics. John feared Sherlock could lose his fingers—or even his entire hands—if any further debridement was necessary. His fever had dropped by nearly half a degree, burnishing everyone's hopes that the worst was over.

Of course nothing was ever that simple.

By the next morning, that encroaching blackness had returned as if it had never been set back at all. The rushed him away to the operating theatre once again, leaving John to hold his breath and hope for the best. Lestrade had to leave for work early that morning, and John pitied him for having to get up and go after a fitful night's sleep in the king of uncomfortable chairs. The surgeons and doctors had already contacted Mycroft and requested permission for amputation if they found it necessary while operating. He'd told them to do whatever it takes to preserve his brother's life.

While he waited, John almost considered researching necrotising fasciitis survival rates and prognoses, but stopped himself just short of clicking 'enter' every time. The stories that made the news were the horrific tales of complete quadruple amputation or dramatic death by failed resuscitation. This surgery was shorter than the previous one, but still far too long for John's liking.

They brought him back with only slightly larger wounds—John was prepared this time, therefore not as drastically shaken. While they were still nauseating and grotesque in appearance, he'd grown accustomed. Besides, his tear reservoirs had completely run dry.

At least, he thought they had.

~0~

Lestrade had taken another early leave from work to be with John, a sacrifice which he greatly appreciated. Mycroft also joined them, since he feared the worst after receiving the request for permission to amputate if necessary. The three men sat in silence, staring at the walls and listening to the steady beeping of all the machines in the ITU. John suspected they felt obligated to be here while Sherlock was so precariously on the edge in case the worst happened.

John felt numb. It was as if he'd run out of capacity for sadness. Worst-case scenarios drifted around his mind like a whirlwind, each more depressing than the last. Never in a million years would he have expected to find himself here. Cancer was something that happened to other people. He'd had distant, elder relatives who'd suffered from the disease, but their ordeals had never affected him directly. He'd sent sympathy cards, but his everyday life was never altered.

He could already visualise the headline obituary: "Renowned Detective Sherlock Holmes Passes Away after Long Battle with Leukaemia." At this point, he couldn't foresee any other resolution to this chain of events. He was at the bottom of an abyss, where no light from above could reach him. He'd have to write a eulogy. What could he possibly say to cover all that was great about Sherlock Holmes? How could he possibly form any words through the grief of losing his best friend? How could he continue to live his life without the eccentric detective stomping around and disturbing the peace?

Although he didn't remember ever leaning over, he suddenly found his face buried in Lestrade's shoulder. Maybe he passed out from grief and exhaustion or simply fell over. The DI didn't attempt to shove him off, just simply draped his right arm across John's shoulder and held him close. The gesture wasn't romantic, just immeasurably comforting. John relished in the thought that he wasn't going through this completely alone. He wondered if Sherlock felt alone. He'd heard stories of people in comas being able to hear everything going on around them, just unable to respond physically. Knowing Sherlock, he was probably mentally scolding John for being so sentimental.

~0~

Sherlock could feel his mind-palace-self weakening. He'd woken up from the last surgery they'd executed on another, lower floor of the mind palace. He was now faced with the wooden banister leading to the deepest dungeon of his creation. He was deep enough down that he could no longer hear the voices of the people around him, and he didn't like it at all. When he could hear, he still felt somewhat connected to the real world. It at least kept him convinced he wasn't dead—and wasn't alone. He clung to every syllable John uttered when the doctor chose to speak. Without that connection, he felt like he was lost and drifting away.

The depths of his mind palace somehow beckoned him, drawing him down the stairs and into oblivion. He inexplicably heeded his mind's request, slowly descending the sleek staircase. The air around him darkened as he stepped down another stair, and another. He caught his first glimpse of the door which awaited him at the nadir of his mind palace. This door led to the room in which he kept his most primordial thoughts and emotions.

His quivering hand reached out for the doorknob, and he listened to the creak of disuse as he slowly twisted it. He didn't recall ever making this room; it had been there from the beginning. He stepped inside, and the door immediately slammed shut behind him. Panicked, he turned around and attempted to step back out, but the door wouldn't budge no matter how hard he struggled. He glanced around the room, a padded cell like that one would find in a psychiatric ward.

"It's no use," a voice behind him laughed. He knew that voice... He slowly turned back around to come face-to-face with James Moriarty, wrapped in a straightjacket and chained to the wall. He wondered why his subconscious feelings would manifest themselves in such a strange way.

"What are you doing here?" he spat.

"It's your mind palace. Why don't you ask yourself?" the Irishman huffed. For the life of him, Sherlock could not figure out how his worst enemy's likeness ended up in the depths of his mind palace.

"Can't figure it out, huh? Of course, you always were incredibly dull. Do you know what being in this room even means?"

Sherlock considered this for a moment, but his brain felt like it was falling apart within his skull. His thoughts didn't flow continuously with each other as they usually did. He opened his mouth to reply to the professor, but no words came out.

"Sherlock, you're dying." He smiled, as if this concept greatly amused him.

"I'm...dying?" he replied.

"Yes, isn't it obvious? Your brain is practically the only thing left of you that still has some semblance of function, thought it's nothing like it used to be. How does it feel to know you'll be spending your last few moments with me? I'm sure it's a great honour."

"Never," Sherlock spat venomously. "I will not die, especially not here stuck with you."

"You might want to tell that to your heart and lungs, because they're on a different agenda."

"How do you know? You're not out there, watching my real body like you were earlier." Sherlock remembered how terrified he'd been that day the Irishman had decided to pay him a visit. He'd been so out of his mind, he'd punched John in the face. Moriarty had revealed that he'd been behind the leaks to the press about his condition.

"Oh Sherlock, you are so slow," the professor sighed. "Painfully slow." Sherlock thought desperately to capture the piece of the puzzle he was missing, but he couldn't find it no matter how diligently he wracked his brain. He'd seen it with his own eyes: Moriarty in his hospital room, taunting and teasing him. He could feel himself weakening, and glanced down at his hands. He was fading—his fingertips had already turned to mist and dissipated. He was literally disappearing from existence.

"Figure it out, you moron!" the Irishman commanded.

"Stop yelling at me, I'm trying to think!" Sherlock shouted back. His voice didn't sound nearly as commanding as he'd intended it to. He felt suddenly dizzy, and collapsed to his knees.

"Since you're obviously too thick to figure it out, I'll just tell you. Sherlock, I never came to the hospital. I was never there, and I certainly didn't have any contact with that bitch Dr. Harrison."

"No," Sherlock rasped. "I saw you, you were there."

"No. I wasn't there. You dreamt me up."

"Then how did the newspapers know I was sick?"

"Sherlock, this is the twenty-first century. Word gets out, whether you want it to or not. I don't know how directly involved Dr. Harrison was in the press getting the details of the story, but I certainly didn't waste my time on something so trivial."

"That's a lie."

"No, it's not. I've told many a lie in my lifetime, but this isn't one of them. I'm all in your head. Just look at us, chilling out together in the depths of your mind. You created me."

Sherlock couldn't think straight; his head felt like it was spinning about on his neck. He'd been so convinced that Moriarty was real, that he'd confessed to his involvement. Maybe the drugs had addled his brain, and he had hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe he was dying, and this part was a lie too. He was pretty certain he was right about the dying part—his whole body felt like it was dissolving into nothingness. He glanced down, only to find that his limbs had evaporated up to the elbows and knees. He laid down on the floor of the cell and stared up at the padded ceiling. If he was really going to leave this world, the last thing he saw would not be the sneering face of James Moriarty.

Just before he closed his eyes and succumbed to the darkness, an anguished shriek pierced the thick veil of his mind palace. Nothing he'd ever heard before had contained such absolute desperation.

"SHERLOCK!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course the padded cell room of the mind palace comes straight from HLV canon, but I added a bit of my own artistic flair. Also, I wasn't entirely sure what to do with the Moriarty storyline that gemstone1234 was developing, so I hope this is a satisfactory resolution. Thanks for reading!


	30. Not Okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has come to my attention that this story is actually causing some distress. There is a fine balance a writer must hit between being boring and being cruel; and I fear I may have gone too far towards the cruel side. So, to alleviate some of the panic, I'm giving you two things. One: a reminder that this story is not tagged for major character death and two: a list of the chapter titles for the remainder of the story.
> 
> 31: Hope  
> 32: The Worst Is Behind Us  
> 33: New Normal  
> 34: Progress Again  
> 35: Home  
> 36: Life Goes On  
> 37: Still Sherlock  
> 38: Second Bounce  
> 39: Moving Forward  
> 40: Epilogue
> 
> I hope this makes things a little easier to absorb, and I'm sorry for what I'm about to do in this chapter here.

Something niggled at the back of John's mind, but he couldn't pin it down. He had a vague sense that something was changing—something crucial—but he couldn't draw the connection. Maybe he was paranoid, convinced that his grief would come to a head in some dramatic fashion. Sherlock slept as peacefully as ever, the ventilator forcing his chest to rise and fall in perfect rhythm.

Rhythm.

That was it. The rhythm had changed. He'd sat in this room for hours on end listening to the steady beat of the heart monitor, so he knew its precise tempo, and this was not it. Something had changed. It was more erratic, not drastically so, but enough for someone as in-tune with Sherlock as John was to notice the difference. He glanced at the monitor, which still registered that everything was within normal range.

"Should I call a nurse?" he silently asked himself. It had been many years since he'd had to interpret cardiac rhythms with such accuracy, so maybe his conclusion was incorrect. The difference could simply be a manifestation of his worry, an imaginary symptom he'd conjured up to end the perpetual cycle of not knowing.

He argued with himself for far too long, and he became so focussed on that internal conflict that his ears didn't register the worsening of the rhythm. In fact, nobody registered anything until the alarms started screeching. And nobody reacted quickly enough to do anything until the monitor displayed a dead flatline.

"SHERLOCK!" John screamed, leaping up from his seat and charging the bed. Nurses and doctors flooded the bedside, crash cart in tow, and John felt himself shoved away until he could no longer see the detective through the throng of medical personnel. He tried in vain to jostle his way through, but found himself forced out of the circle of people working on Sherlock. He caught quick glimpses of a doctor pounding on his chest, heard snatches of 'charging,' but everything was broken, like he was watching telly through a bad signal.

"Let me come through!" he shouted, mindlessly shoving his way closer, anything to get closer to his best friend. Some distant part of him knew this was wrong, that he should step back and let the doctors work, but he couldn't control the overpowering desire to be with Sherlock. His vision was going in and out of focus, and he felt himself swaying on his feet. He'd never felt so despairingly helpless.

He felt his shoulders gripped firmly by two sets of hands—Lestrade and Mycroft's—that slowly drew him backwards, away from the developing nightmare in front of him. "Jesus, no," he muttered, resigning himself to the fact that there was nothing he could do in this situation. "God no." He vaguely registered Lestrade and Mycroft dragging him out of the room and down the hallway. His ears were ringing with the shrill tone of the heart monitor, and he couldn't catch his breath. John was barely coherent enough to register where they were going, but he somehow found himself seated in a comfortable chair, staring into two concerned faces.

"John," he heard Greg intone. Was that his name? He honestly couldn't remember anything beyond that he was hopelessly panicked and barely clinging to sanity. "John," the DI repeated, resting a hand on the flailing doctor's good shoulder. Of course Greg would remember to avoid his injured joint, knowing it would only trigger more traumatic memories. That gesture grounded him; his vision somewhat refocused and the incessant ringing in his ears quieted.

"John, can you hear me?" Lestrade inquired calmly. John marvelled at how calm the two of them had managed to stay, when the situation had driven him to mania. He looked the inspector in the eye and gently nodded. He took several deep breaths to force himself back into a semblance of self-control.

"John, everything's going to be okay," he assured. John envied his optimism, but he'd seen too many good men leave this Earth to share that feeling.

"No! It's not okay! Nothing about this is okay!" he felt himself slipping away again, felt his breathing pick up speed. Before he could completely fall to pieces, two rough hands grasped his head on either side, and he found himself staring into Lestrade's dark brown eyes.

"John, I need you to get a hold of yourself. I know this is stressful, I know this is an absolute nightmare, but you losing your mind is not going to help anybody. Understand?"

"Understand," he replied. Still clutching John's head in his calloused hands, Lestrade instructed him to breathe in unison with him, and the exercise greatly helped John to settle his raging nerves. After a minute, he finally felt somewhat in control, and Lestrade relinquished his grip. The three men sat silently in the room, which John now recognised as one doctors used to break bad news to families. The irony wasn't lost on him, and he nearly surrendered to madness yet again. But he couldn't lose it now, he had to remain in control or he'd be of no help to anybody. He took several deep breaths to bring himself back from the brink.

He glanced up at Lestrade and Mycroft, and saw his own inner turmoil reflected on their grim features. They'd all seen what occurred, and they all shared the same fear: that this was the end. Mycroft, usually so stoic and unreadable, appeared on the verge of tears. His eyes glistened while his gaze remained fixed on a blank section of wall. The room was designed to be as unstimulating as possible, but John viewed it as a mirror of the emptiness that its occupants felt inside. John pitied Mycroft; the man tried so hard for so long to protect his little brother, whose lifestyle often landed him in danger, only to be foiled by an unseen enemy. He was accustomed to a position of power, to being in control of his life—and the life of his brother. Now his brother's life lay in the hands of strangers.

Lestrade looked more composed than even Mycroft, who he was sure seemed infinitely more together than John himself did. In his line of work, tragedy was no stranger. He'd seen innocent people murdered in their own homes for no reason other than being in the way of some psychopath's agenda. Yet somehow, those calamities paled in comparison to the sheer unfairness of the situation they now found themselves in. Sherlock had done many things to threaten his own health and life. He'd used drugs and thrown himself into numerous encounters with dangerous criminals, yet it was rotten luck that had now brought him so close to death.

Why did it have to be Sherlock? John wondered why the Fates, or whatever entity governed matters such as these, would choose to torment such a beautiful soul. Sherlock tried to come across as arrogant and unfeeling, but underneath the layers of snarky comments and fancy deductions, Sherlock truly cared. He cared about Mrs. Hudson, he cared about Lestrade, he cared about Molly, he probably cared about Mycroft, and he certainly cared about John. The doctor had witnessed enough of the detective's apologetic stares when he realised he'd said something brash, enough inquiries into the acceptability of his behaviour, and enough selfless acts of bravery to know beyond any doubt that Sherlock had a heart. To know that that heart was now failing... it ripped John apart.

~0~

Black.

Everything was black.

Numb.

Everything felt numb.

John.

He needed to get back to John.

Sherlock vaguely remembered his encounter with Moriarty in the bowels of the mind palace, and he now found himself in a strange limbo between life and death. It felt like he was in a dream, but his subconscious couldn't imagine anything more exciting than endless darkness. Abruptly, a white flash like a bolt of lightning lit up the air around him. Yet once the afterglow subsided, he didn't feel any different.

He had no sense of the passage of time, and no idea where he was or what he was supposed to do. At least in the mind palace he had some sense of purpose. Now, he just felt... adrift. If this was the afterlife, it wasn't too bad. Certainly nothing in comparison to the nightmarish visions of Hell that Mycroft had instilled in him when he was a little boy. It was peaceful. He felt no pain, no sense of responsibility, no obligation, and—most importantly—no boredom. His consciousness was content in this state to just exist.

Just when he told himself that staying here for eternity wouldn't be all that bad, his thoughts returned to John. He needed to get back to John. He couldn't bear the thought of the doctor having to endure such a tragedy. If Sherlock died, there was no telling how far John would fall or how unreachable he would become in his grief. Sherlock couldn't allow John to suffer through that pain.

He needed to get back to John.

Another flash of light sparked across the sky, and Sherlock hoped it would be the one that revived him. There was no other possible explanation for the brightness: it had to be the efforts of the doctors at the hospital to bring him back to life. They wouldn't just let him die without a fight; they were undoubtedly in the throes of a full-blown resuscitation. Sherlock didn't like the idea of strangers pummelling his body into submission or jolting him with electricity, but he knew he'd have to work with them to get back to John.

He willed himself to break out of the cocoon of darkness, to escape from the brink of death. Another jolting blaze of light, and he spontaneously awoke back in the padded cell with Moriarty, his mind-palace-self's limbs intact. Good. Getting better. Closer to life.

"Well, look who came crawling back. Death not suit you well?" Moriarty taunted.

"Shut up," Sherlock growled. He needed to get back to John.

He stumbled up to the door, incredibly weak and unsteady on his feet, and jimmied the handle yet again in hopes it would open. It did not. Desperate for a means to escape, he rammed his shoulder against the door, hoping the force could break it off its hinges.

"Would you look at that, he's trying to break free. Was it something I said?"

Sherlock ignored the Irishman and focussed all his energy into busting through the door. Again and again he forced his shoulder into the door, hoping that enough blows would weaken it. He tried until his arm went numb and his back screamed in protest. He felt like giving up, but he needed to get back to John. Mustering all his energy, he charged at the door and felt it buckle beneath the strain. Exhilarated with his success, he sprinted for the staircase.

However, he hadn't made it up five steps before unbearable exhaustion overcame him and he collapsed against the banister. He felt utterly drained; fighting his way back from death had sapped him of all his energy. There was absolutely no way he would get any farther without a quick rest. He was sure he'd gotten far enough for his real body to not be clinically dead, and hopefully John would see that and know that Sherlock had fought his way back to him.

~0~

John lost track of how long he sat in that room with Mycroft and Lestrade. All his energy was directed towards banishing the bad thoughts. However, in the silence, it was difficult to prevent his mind from wandering to terrible places.

What was taking so long? Protocol didn't allow doctors to perform CPR beyond a certain point-of-no-return. There was no way they'd try to revive his friend for this long when there were other patients with a better chance of survival. Why hadn't they come to tell him the bad news? Or the good news? He forced himself to acknowledge that Sherlock could yet live through this. He couldn't let his mind immediately jump to the worst possible conclusion. It didn't occur to him that the three of them weren't in the waiting room where they could be easily found; they'd basically hidden themselves away.

"There you are, we've been looking all over," the voice of Dr. Janssen called from the doorway. John started at the sudden noise breaking the fragile silence, and turned to attempt to read the doctor's face. People always had a certain stiffness to their features when they were about to deliver painful news. John didn't say a word, just stared at Dr. Janssen expecting him to provide information.

"I must tell you that it was precipitously close, but he's a fighter unlike any I've ever seen before. We got his heart started again, but it took quite an effort. He's being even more closely monitored in case he arrests again, so prognosis is extremely guarded."

John barely bothered to pay attention to the doctor's words beyond the fact that Sherlock was alive. Alive. He felt like he could weep with relief, but all he actually did was nod at Dr. Janssen and exhale a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Alive. Alive. Alive. Sherlock was alive.

"When can we see him again?" he asked with a voice hoarse from shouting.

"I would tell you to hold off and let him rest for a few more hours, but I saw how stressful this ordeal was for you and I think it would be beneficial if you could be there—both for you and for Mr. Holmes."

John didn't wait for further invitation, but practically sprinted back to the ITU. Of course he didn't think Dr. Janssen would lie to him about Sherlock's condition, but he still wanted to see him with his own eyes. When he reached the familiar bed, he had to forcibly resist the urge to tackle Sherlock in a massive hug. He was so relieved that his best friend hadn't left him, that he'd forced his body back into function. He had faith in modern medicine and the role it had played in bringing Sherlock back, but his belief in Sherlock's stubbornness was far stronger. If he'd wanted to go, nothing could have brought him back.

John sat down in the familiar chair and watched the steady rise and fall of his friend's chest, the bleeping of the heart monitor providing pleasant background music. Some may have found it annoying, but to John it was proof that his best friend wasn't giving up on him.

~0~

Sherlock surviving the code had been a massive weight off everyone's shoulders, but they were still tense with anticipation. He was still in critical condition, the possibility of another catastrophic failure never far enough away to be comfortable. Whatever bacteria had infected him were vicious ones, and even the strongest antibiotics they could provide couldn't keep it in check.

Ten days, three surgeries, and one more terrifying code later, John was at the end of his tether. Sherlock had lost the entirety of his right little finger and over half of his ring finger to the flesh-eating bacteria. The doctors had warned John that this might be necessary if the infection spread too far, but he still hadn't been sufficiently prepared for when they brought Sherlock back from the OR missing pieces. If Sherlock woke up, he'd be absolutely livid that John had let them do this to him. However, John knew it could have been much, much worse. He'd heard stories of people losing entire limbs to necrotising infections.

The doctors and John were now cautiously optimistic, on the verge of releasing the proverbial breath they'd been holding. The last debridement had been three days ago, and the wounds showed no sign of more necrotising tissue. All previous times, it had taken little more than twenty four hours for the gangrenous infection to rear its ugly head again. Maybe the medication had finally kicked in the way it was supposed to.

~0~

It had taken Sherlock forever to ascend to the top of the staircase from Moriarty's cell. He had no clue how long, but it felt like three lifetimes. It didn't help that he periodically passed out, and it also made him wonder what the doctors were doing to him in the real world. He was driven almost as strongly by curiosity regarding his own condition as he was by the need to get back to John.

Eventually, he made it back to the main level of the mind palace, finding he still lacked the ability to exit. He wanted to scream and rage and tear things apart, but the earlier storm had wreaked as much destruction as was possible. He feared that he'd actually forget something important if he broke things at his whim. Instead, he vented his anger by shouting obscenities at the ceiling. Some part of him hoped he was close enough to consciousness for his riot to affect his real body, but he had no way of knowing.

He shouted and screamed until his throat was hoarse and he collapsed with exhaustion. He was sick and tired of being stuck here; it was boring and downright depressing. He wanted more than anything to wake himself up and tell John that he was okay, that he wouldn't dare hurt John by dying like that. He wanted to promise him that they'd go down together, dragging a wretched criminal mastermind down with them after spending many glorious hours deducing and tracking him. 

Sherlock hated himself for getting sick like this, hated his transport for being so mundane and mortal. His body wasn't supposed to do anything but carry his brain, yet here it was killing him. How dare a part of him be so traitorous? It just wasn't fair! Grief and rage roiled through him tumultuously, until there was nothing he could do but sink to his knees and cry.


	31. Hope

Two more days without a hint of further necrotising fasciitis. Sherlock's fever had lessened to nearly normal, and they'd even begun to wean him off the ventilator. Dr. Janssen told John this meant they were likely over the worst of it. As long as things held steady, they'd start looking at a skin graft to heal the gaping wound on his head. John watched Sherlock with bated breath, still wondering whether he could hear what was said around him.

"Sherlock, you're coming back to me," he whispered, wishing he could hold the detective's hand but knowing they were far too delicate. The last thing he wanted was to interfere with his healing. "You're going to be so pissed off when you come to," John rambled, attempting to lighten the mood. He had a gut feeling that something earth-shattering would happen this day, but he wasn't sure of its nature. That day just felt... important. "But your feelings will be nothing compared to mine; I'll probably pass out with sheer joy. Sherlock, I miss you. I miss your deductions, I miss the way you look at everybody as if they're idiots, I miss your devious smile when Lestrade brings a case, I miss that joyous look in your eyes you get when you solve it, I miss finding eyeballs in our refrigerator, I just want you back."

John should have been embarrassed that he was so openly pouring his heart out, but he couldn't find the energy to care. He just wanted life to return to normal—or, as normal as life with Sherlock Holmes could be. Most people probably didn't consider being woken up at three in the morning by violin music or a practically orgasmic exclamation of understanding to be 'normal.' Leukaemia had been their new normal for far too long, and everyone was ready to leave it as far in the past as possible. The realistic side of him knew this wasn't possible, that Sherlock would always carry vestiges of the desperate battle he'd fought against his own body, but he still held out hope that the traces would diminish with time.

As his train of thought meandered aimlessly, he caught a quick glimpse of something at the edges of his peripheral vision. Sherlock's left arm had fidgeted.

The figure in the bed had been so painfully still for so long that the slight movement caught John's eye instantly. His heart soared as another twitch confirmed that he hadn't been hallucinating. The implications of this milestone brought John to tears. Sherlock was coming out of it.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" he questioned, inching ever closer. "I saw you move your arm; if you can hear me, can you do it again, just so I know you're listening?" He thought it might be too much to ask for, but he was proved wrong as Sherlock's elbow bent, dragging mutilated fingers a short distance across the sheet.

"That's great!" he exclaimed elatedly. "Sherlock, that's just fantastic. I knew you were in there. Please tell me you weren't listening when I told you how much I missed you. You and I both know people will talk." Now that he had a sliver of proof that Sherlock could hear him through the thick veil of a deep sleep, he found himself rambling nonsense. He talked about growing up with Harry, all the trouble she used to get herself into, he told war stories from his stint in Afghanistan, anything he could think of to fill the silence. He wasn't used to talking to Sherlock without being rudely interrupted, and he definitely didn't like it.

~0~

Sherlock could feel the shroud separating his consciousness from the outside world thinning ever so slowly. The voices that surrounded him sounded much crisper and more decipherable, and he felt far more connected to his physical body. He felt confident enough to again try and force himself to move.

He focussed on his left arm, picturing the internal bone and muscle structure to help him concentrate. Ulna. Radius. Humerus. Bicep. Tricep. He clenched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth in concentration until he sensed the now unfamiliar tactile sensation of motion. He'd done it! Thrilled with his progress, he tried again and was overjoyed when his limb complied yet again.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John's voice startled him out of his excitement.

"Yes, I can hear you!" he responded. He wanted desperately to speak to John and reassure him, but he knew his efforts at speech from in here were futile.

"I saw you move your arm; if you can hear me, can you do it again, just so I know you're listening?" Perfect: a task he could actually accomplish that would help him communicate with John. He focussed again on his left arm, finding himself more exhausted than he should be after such nominal exertion. He almost got lost in his ire for this disease and what it had done to him before he slapped himself back into reality. John had asked him to do something, and he would do it. He centred his thoughts on his elbow joint again and forced his muscles to contract. To his great relief, they complied.

"That's great! Sherlock, that's just fantastic. I knew you were in there. Please tell me you weren't listening when I told you how much I missed you. You and I both know people will talk."

"John, of course I was listening. There's nothing more entertaining to do in this bloody mind palace since it wrecked itself." Truthfully, he had heard everything John had said to him, and it warmed his heart like the comfortable glow of a roaring fire. He missed John too, possibly even more than John evidently missed him. He missed John telling him off for being socially inept, he missed him failing miserably to do the crosswords then the answers were so obvious, he missed him charging into danger by his side, he missed his obstinate denial that he'd brought his gun along when of course he had it with him, but most of all he missed how John always seemed to know what he was thinking. He could catch him doing something stupid before he actually started to do it. He brought him tea he hadn't asked for but realised he was craving as soon as the mug was set down in front of him.

He listened as John descended into babbling nonsense, simply revelling in the sound of his friend's voice. He was enraptured as John leapt from unrelated topic to unrelated topic, somehow managing to follow his rambling. He much preferred the sound of John's speech to the unbearable silence that had overcome the mind palace so often. He sat down in the armchair he'd righted a while ago and allowed himself to doze off, the gentle lilt of John's voice soothing him like a lullaby.

~0~

John couldn't wipe the grin off of his face for the next several hours. When Dr. Janssen entered the room to check up on them, he did a double-take upon seeing the rare expression on John's face. They were all far too used to frowns and blank, concerned stares; a smile was a welcome surprise.

"Dr. Watson, what's got you so happy?" he inquired.

"Sherlock moved his arm," John stated proudly. Taken out of context, the statement would hardly be worthy of consideration, but Dr. Janssen was well aware of the circumstances and was understandably pleased.

"Really? That's great!"

"And when I asked him to do it again, he complied."

"All very good signs. He's under no sedation, so waking up is all on him right now. If he's ready and he's strong enough, he'll come out of it. It's only a matter of time."

"Sherlock never does anything he's asked. When he wakes up, it'll be solely because he wants to." John noticed he'd switched his own diction to 'when' instead of 'if,' and was surprised to find it felt right. Sherlock was going to wake up: that was a fact. John just hoped it would be sooner rather than later.

His hopes were realised as Sherlock stirred again. Both he and Dr. Janssen stared unblinkingly, waiting for something revolutionary to happen. John crept closer so he could make out the distinct fluttering of his eyelids; it looked like he was dreaming in REM sleep. John nearly gasped when two startling ice-blue eyes shot open. He'd become so accustomed to seeing them closed, that he'd nearly forgotten the unique swirling pattern of blues that adorned Sherlock's irises. For an instant, their gazes met, and John saw pure recognition reflected across his features.

And then it all went to Hell.

~0~

Sherlock had been awake inside the mind palace for a while now, and his control over his body was slowly increasing. He felt more and more like he was simply asleep, as opposed to comatose and imprisoned in his own mind. He heard John and Dr. Janssen talk about his waking and how it was all up to Sherlock. He hated that they assigned him all the responsibility; he was so tired from fighting for so long. But he knew he had to get better for John.

The veil of unconsciousness was thinner than ever, and Sherlock instinctually knew he was close to waking. He concentrated on his much-awaited egress from the mind palace, and suddenly he made the jump back into his own body.

The sensation was foreign—he'd forgotten how sick his real body actually was, and he almost seemed lighter than he ever remembered being. He somehow felt exposed, like parts of him that were supposed to be covered weren't for some reason. At first, everything was pitch black. For a moment he was confused, but then he remembered that one must open one's eyes in order for light and visual stimuli to reach the brain.

With much more force than should be necessary, he wrenched his eyelids open. Light flooded his vision, overwhelming his long-unused retinas. He blinked several times before things began to focus into actual objects. The first thing he managed to make out fully was the stark white tile ceiling of the hospital room. Then, his line of sight travelled ever so slightly to the left and he found himself staring into the eyes of John Watson.

It had been so long since he'd seen a familiar face, and he drank it in. However, even in its addled state, his brain was quick enough to deduce that John was haggard and exhausted. The dark rings under his eyes were massive, and his cheeks were hollow and sunken, as if he hadn't eaten in weeks. But it was still his John, and he relished in the fact that his friend had remained by his side through such a traumatic and stressful time.

He tried to speak, to greet John after so much time apart, but found himself still intubated. As soon as he realised it, his discomfort grew exponentially. On top of that, his nerves were just beginning to fire pain signals from every which way. His feet, his hands, and his head all burned like someone held a torch to them.

He lifted his left arm out to John, wanting to cling to something comforting while he figured out exactly what had happened while he was locked away in his brain. He caught sight of his hand—or, what used to be a hand.

"What did they do to me?" he thought, observing the mangled heap of flesh and bone. He knew they'd sliced him up, but he never expected this degree of devastation. He looked again to John, hoping the man's knowing gaze would provide him with some sort of answer, but finding nothing. He turned to his right hand and managed to raise it to a level where he could see it. But still, he couldn't see it. At least not all of it. Where were his fingers? One, two, three... and a half? He turned it around the other way, as if his missing digits could be hiding. Nothing. They were just gone.

He then made the connection between the itching, burning feeling and the wounds criss-crossing his hands. But his head experienced the same sensation. With great effort, he brought his right hand up to his scalp to assess the damage tactilely. He vaguely registered John and Dr. Janssen react and rush towards him, but they weren't quick enough to stop him before his fingertips reached their destination.

He grasped what he assumed would be his head, but was met instead with exposed bone. That wasn't right. Before he could explore further, his arm was ripped away and forced back against the bed, sending shooting pains through his mutilated fingers. Sherlock had never liked to be touched, but being handled so roughly sent him over the edge, and he panicked.

He attempted to jerk his hand away from whoever had grabbed him, but was far too weak to oppose the grasp of a healthy man. He heard the beeping of the heart monitor speed up with his racing pulse, and he struggled to breathe with the choking feeling of a tube shoved down his throat. He was drowning, lost in a vortex of pain and confusion. He tried in vain to struggle out of the vice-like grip of his captors, who now held both of his arms against the bed, but he was far too exhausted to do much more than squirm. He looked once more at John, wishing he could hear his pleas for help, before the cool rush of unconsciousness swept over him and pulled him swiftly under.

~0~

John was not expecting Sherlock to awaken with such lucidity in the first few seconds. Almost immediately, he held up his hands to inspect them. John couldn't imagine how terrifying it would be to wake up to find you'd been chopped to bits, and Sherlock clearly demonstrated utter confusion and pain. John was so focussed on observing the subtle changes in Sherlock's expression as he thought his way through the current situation that he didn't see his hand begin to move until it was too late. Maimed fingers met gaping scalp wound, and John's heart leapt into his throat. Fortunately, Dr. Janssen reacted quicker than he could and yanked his hand away before he could cause more damage to the already delicate flesh.

John had the sense to secure his other arm before he could reach up with that one. He felt hopelessly guilty as he witnessed the betrayal in Sherlock's eyes as he weakly bucked and thrashed against their grips. Physically, he was no match for the combined strength of John and Dr. Janssen, but John knew he had the mental vigour to continue struggling until he passed out. Fortunately, a nurse had heard the slight commotion and come running into the room. John recognised her as one of the more experienced on the staff, and was pleased to see she'd already begun to draw up a sedative. Sherlock's heart rate had picked up significantly, and his breathing would have too if he wasn't still being artificially ventilated. John could see his was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack, and willed the nurse to work faster. She administered the medicine, and Sherlock immediately slackened, the combined effect of the drug and his own exhaustion too much for his taxed system to handle. John sighed with relief and released his grip on Sherlock's forearm.

"Phew," Dr. Janssen sighed. "That could have gone a lot worse. We should restrain him before he wakes up again, we don't want him to hurt himself." John simply watched as he secured Sherlock's wrists to the bedrails. Waking up in handcuffs wouldn't be ideal, but it was preferable to him worsening his wounds by poking around. The exposed tissue had already begun to seep blood from the aggravation of being thrashed about.

John had been so relieved to see his best friend again that he hadn't properly considered the shock returning to the real world had dealt him. He would be terrified and combative if he suddenly woke up somewhere unfamiliar.

"Do you plan to extubate him soon? He was clearly desperate to breathe on his own," John said to Dr. Janssen.

"Yes, we've been weaning him for the past few days, and I think he does have the strength to get by without it at this point. We'll watch him a while longer, make sure the excitement hasn't impacted his ability to breathe, and then do it."

"How long before he comes to again?" John asked, already missing Sherlock more than ever now that he'd had a tantalising glimpse of the real him.

"It's difficult to say, what with everything that's been going on the past few days. Probably no less than six hours based on what the nurse gave him. Dr. Watson, you should take this time to rest up and eat something. You look like death warmed over, and you can now trust that Mr. Holmes isn't going to be leaving us anytime soon."

John knew he should listen to the doctor's advice; he needed sleep and sustenance, but he couldn't bring himself to leave his friend when he'd been so clearly terrified. Besides, he didn't think he could sleep or eat even if he tried; he was far too wound up.

"Thank you Dr. Janssen. I'll try." As the doctor made his exit, John returned to his usual chair. He gently reached out to Sherlock and stroked his forearm just above the restraint. He'd seen it in those stunning blue eyes that his Sherlock was in there, fighting to return. He hoped the sedative had gifted him a dreamless sleep, that the horror of waking up to a body that had been partially destroyed without his knowledge didn't detract from his rest. He still looked impossibly sick and frail. They had a long road of recovery ahead of them.

~0~

Sherlock's second waking was fortunately far less eventful. John watched enthralled as his eyes gently flickered open, still hazy from sedation. He attempted to move against the restraints, and John saw panic flash across his features as he realised he'd been essentially chained up. John immediately moved to sooth him, assuring him that he wasn't in danger. The doctors had determined he was fit to be extubated, and the procedure was carried out without a hitch. John sighed with relief as Sherlock's stats held steady.

"Sherlock, I need you to calm down," he said tranquilly. "The more you struggle, the more exhausted and hurting you'll be. If you tell me you can stay calm, I'll untie you." Sherlock didn't speak, just nodded emphatically, staring at John as if begging him to make it all right again. John sincerely wished he could fix everything, but the best he could do was make Sherlock as unafraid and comfortable as possible. He slowly released the bonds around his wrists, preparing to grab Sherlock should he take sudden advantage of his newfound freedom. Much to John's relief, he didn't instantaneously fall to pieces.

He moved his dry lips to speak, but his disused throat couldn't muster the energy to form audible words. He frowned at his own incapability, and John felt an inundation of pity for the great detective. However, Sherlock was resilient, and he kept trying until he produced comprehensible sounds.

"John... what... why." Of course, Sherlock wanted an explanation. The man dealt solely in facts and data; it made perfect sense he'd want to know what had transpired that led to his long absence from reality. Yet John wasn't sure he wanted to tell him. Actually, he wasn't sure he himself could endure a retelling of the terrible chain of events. He'd barely made it through the first time, and he didn't like his odds of keeping a level head while he relived it all. But Sherlock had the right to know what had happened to his own body, and John couldn't deny him that.

John sighed, bracing himself for the imminent emotional beating, and said, "Sherlock, you've been really sick."

"I know," Sherlock interrupted. "Cancer. Do remember that part."

"I know you remember, but you were even sicker than that, if you can believe it. You had a terrible infection that turned to necrotising fasciitis, that's why they had to debride some of your skin and tissue." Sherlock's hand inevitably drifted back up towards his head, but John reached out and stopped him. "Don't touch it. Sherlock, you almost died. Your heart stopped twice, and we all feared the worst. I don't know how you pulled through it, but man am I thankful you did."

"Came... for you. John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a confession to make... while I've never been against Johnlock, I've always seen them more as inseparable friends than romantic partners. However, it seems my writing leans much more towards Johnlock than I ever intended, and that's not a bad thing. Maybe I've just been reading too much J_Baillier ;)


	32. The Worst Is Behind Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I love this chapter. It's got quite a bit of fluffy banter, which is always fun to write. I hope it's just as much fun to read.

John was taken aback by that declaration. He knew how deeply he cared for Sherlock, but he didn't think to consider how strongly the feeling was reciprocated. Sherlock had just claimed he fought his way back from the brink of death to get back to John. Sure, he was certainly still fuzzy from drugs and exhaustion, but there was no mistaking the pure devotion spelled out in that simple statement.

"John. How long?" Sherlock muttered, looking John in the eye earnestly.

"Too long, Sherlock. Far too long. The doctors were this close to giving up on you," John replied, indicating closeness with his index finger and thumb held barely a centimetre apart.

"Were you close?"

"Sherlock, you've no idea how badly I want to say no, but I can't lie to you. When things were looking hopeless, I actually considered what I would say at your funeral. I tried to best prepare myself for what I thought was inevitable, but then you turned around and suddenly it wasn't so inevitable anymore."

"Wouldn't have left you."

"I should have trusted that you wouldn't. You're too stubborn to let something as simple as bacteria take you down."

"Which was it?"

"Strep A."

"How? Remember lots of washing," Sherlock mumbled. John wasn't used to him speaking in such broken sentences, but assumed he was rationing what little energy he had left in order to remain awake as long as possible.

"We don't know for sure," John answered. He knew the doctors suspected it was Molly's brief visit that had exposed him, but he couldn't tell Sherlock that he'd been brought to his knees by such an innocent encounter, especially one he'd entirely slept through.

"Lies."

"Sherlock, that's not important right now. How are you feeling? Any pain? It must be a shock to the system to wake up after so long in a coma."

"Head hurts," he murmured. John had to restrain him again from reaching up to scratch at the thin dressing. He had no doubt it was incredibly painful even with medication, but he couldn't allow Sherlock to compromise its healing by messing around with it. Sherlock tried to work through John's grip, but he simply didn't have the strength. John was afraid he'd have to put the restraints back on, but Sherlock eventually relented. "Why... no touch."

"Sherlock, I don't know if you remember, but you cut yourself on the head. That small gash was one of the main locations of infection, so they had to cut out all the bad tissue. If you touch it, it'll only hurt worse and could introduce even more pathogens," John explained.

"How much... gone?"

"Sherlock, I don't think that matters ri—" John began, only to be forcibly cut off.

"How much?" Sherlock demanded, with as much conviction as his feeble and hoarse voice could convey.

"A lot. I don't know how to explain it exactly, but it's definitely a lot."

"Picture."

"No."

"Picture."

"Absolutely not. The last thing you need is something to freak out about. You need to rest."

"Mirror?"

"I told you: no. You're exhausted, please go back to sleep."

"Slept enough. Slept for weeks." John could literally see Sherlock's eyelids drooping heavily, but the bull-headed detective refused to give in to his brain telling him to take a break.

"Sherlock. More sleep cannot possibly hurt you. You won't get any information out of me, so you might as well stop trying and take a nap."

"Nap," Sherlock repeated as he dozed off. John watched as he slowly succumbed to fatigue, and sighed with relief as his breathing evened out into the easy rhythm of one residing in the realm of dreams. He knew Sherlock would eventually discover the extent of his surgeries, and he knew that it would both terrify and enrage him. The cancer had now robbed him of nearly everything, and John still detested whatever force had dictated the disease strike his Sherlock. The man who practically considered himself immortal struck down by a biological malfunction. John wondered why fate didn't mandate that bad things happen exclusively to bad people, to those who'd earned it. Good people like Sherlock Holmes didn't deserve to be so cruelly hurled through the wringer.

It just wasn't fair.

~0~

Sherlock gained strength with each subsequent nap John forced him to take. Dr. Janssen was incredibly pleased with his progress, and everything remained blissfully free of infection. They were already looking at donor sites for a skin graft to cover the gaping wound on his head—which John had still not allowed him to see no matter how much he begged.

"John, if you won't show me, I'll find someone who will," he insisted. John could understand that desire, but he didn't think he could handle an angry and distressed Sherlock.

"I've told everyone who ever comes in here that they're forbidden," John explained. This wasn't an exaggeration; he informed the entire nursing staff and all of the doctors.

"It's my body, you have no right to keep secrets about it from me."

"You're my friend, and I'm protecting you from yourself. You can see it when it's begun healing."

"But then it won't be as interesting!" he complained, moving to cross his arms. Fortunately, he stopped himself before he damaged any of the dressings adorning his fingers. "Besides, how can it possibly be worse than losing an entire finger? I can't even count to ten anymore."

"Sherlock, you know perfectly well how to count to ten without your fingers. You're not a child, although you're sure acting like one."

"Fine. I'll stop complaining—if we compromise."

"I don't like where this is going, but I guess I have no choice but to hear you out."

"Take a picture of it every day. Try to keep the angle as consistent as possible so I can watch the healing process. You will eventually show it to me, and you're entitled to decide when the time is right. But I can't promise I won't find a mirror before then." John considered this, thinking it wasn't such a bad idea. If Sherlock wanted to turn his own ordeal into a scientific experiment, that was his prerogative. Yet John was still hesitant about documenting something that turned his stomach so violently.

"Fine," he consented. "But not another word."

"Deal." Sherlock reached out his right hand for a traditional handshake, and John almost complied before realising he shouldn't touch the heavily damaged flesh. The absence of a pinkie finger made him cringe internally. They sat in awkward silence for several minutes until the entrance of Dr. Janssen jerked them from their reverie. He'd come to visit at least once a day since Sherlock had woken, but something about his expression revealed he had something important to discuss with them.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Holmes?" he inquired. John knew how much Sherlock hated that question, so he refrained from using it, but the staff didn't share the same adaptation, it was too instinctual for them to simply stop. It didn't look like Sherlock would answer at all, but then he gave a slight shrug. "That's to be expected," Dr. Janssen continued. "I'm here to finally talk about fixing the damage to your scalp. Now that the infection's cleared out, the sooner we get it healing the better."

"Okay," Sherlock muttered when Dr. Janssen paused to wait for acknowledgement.

"Because of the large size of the wound, we will have to do a split-thickness graft. We'll use your upper thigh as the donor site because it's rather easily cared for. I could go into the details of the procedure itself, but it's complicated and unnecessary. Is there anything else you want to know?"

"How long until I can leave?" John expected this question, but the idea of life outside this hospital suddenly seemed alien. They'd been here so long that he almost didn't remember what normal life was like before leukaemia.

"I'm sorry, but I can't provide you with a firm answer to that question. We just need to wait and see how everything goes, and we'll figure out discharge when the medical team deems you ready. The good news, though, is that the marrow transplant appears to be taking relatively well. Your blood counts have begun to rise, which is very promising."

This was news to John. He couldn't help but smile at the small positivity when things had been so bleak for so long. There was now a light at the end of the tunnel, a possibility of life returning to normal. Of course, things would never be exactly the same, but they would no longer hang so precariously on the edge of death and despair. John had been on said precipice for so long, his grip was slipping. Hopefully, this turn for the better would give him the chance to scramble back to the top of the cliff.

~0~

Sherlock wasn't really as angry with John as he was letting on. He was curious about the damage that had been inflicted to rid him of the flesh-eating bacteria, but he was also terrified of what he would see. He could feel the extensiveness of the wound, but couldn't quite picture how it would actually make him look. As aloof as he was towards social norms, his appearance was actually quite important to him. He'd gained a reputation as the tall, lanky, curly-haired detective, and he felt the aesthetic gave him somewhat of a mysterious and formidable vibe.

He was still tall, though he knew he'd descended from lanky to emaciated. He didn't remember the last time he'd eaten solid food; they'd been forcing nutrients down into his guts through a tube for quite a while. Once he returned home, Mrs. Hudson would fuss and insist on cooking to fatten him up. That was one aspect of going home that he certainly wasn't looking forward to: the pity. Even once he left this god forsaken place, he'd take ages to regain his strength. Even after that stage, he'd be permanently different. Even if he beat this, he'd be labelled a cancer survivor for the rest of his life, and he didn't want that.

He just wanted everything to go back to the way it was before he got sick. Solving cases with John and Lestrade, doing experiments in the kitchen, lounging around Baker Street, waking John up in the middle of the night with violin concerts.

Violin.

Sherlock gently lifted his hands to get a closer look at them. The long fingers that used to dance across the strings had been reduced to grisly hotchpotches of dressed lesions. He tried to bend his fingers, only to nearly cry out in agony as abused flesh stretched over bone. He'd have to relearn everything, if his digits even possessed the necessary dexterity. There was a chance he'd never regain full mobility with all the scar tissue that would develop.

Not only that, but the healing process would be agonising. He'd already endured several dressing changes on his hands and head, and had been forced to grit his teeth to prevent screaming in discomfort. How long would it take to reach complete closure of all his wounds?

As much as these thoughts plagued him, he tried to focus on the bright side. He was well aware of the aggressiveness of bacteria, so he should consider himself lucky that he hadn't lost his hands entirely. Or lost his life. John had told him how close he'd come to death, and the thought greatly unnerved him. He remembered the peaceful darkness that had greeted him when he passed out in the mind palace, the ambiguous limbo on the border of life and death. He'd liked it there, had almost considered staying forever. But he now understood that his loss would devastate John, and he couldn't be responsible for that.

The thought of John had helped him fight back from the brink of death, and it was John he thought of as he was carted away for the graft procedure. He wished he could have held his hand, but his own were still too painful to withstand touch. He hated himself for being afraid of something so innocuous, yet anxiety still crawled in the pit of his stomach up until he passed out from anaesthesia. He hated—absolutely loathed—the utter powerlessness he felt knowing they were drugging him into unconsciousness. They could literally do whatever they wanted, and he'd have no way to stop them. He liked being in control, and this was the polar opposite. He contemplated fighting against the doctors, but found he didn't have the strength. He was on the verge of falling asleep of his own accord before they even administered anaesthesia. The next thing he knew, he was blissfully unaware of everything.

~0~

John knew he shouldn't be nervous about a simple skin graft surgery, yet he found himself pacing the floor and wringing his hands in distress. Any separation from Sherlock initiated this feeling of helplessness. He needed to be there for his friend, but he wasn't. He couldn't be there, and that troubled him. He'd almost asked permission to scrub in and watch, but realised before he made a fool of himself how unlikely it was that his request would be granted. Besides, he didn't think he could bear to watch Sherlock being dissected like a lab specimen.

Luckily, Mycroft chose that moment to text requesting updates, taking John's mind off of his severance from Sherlock.

Update? The text from Mycroft read. John didn't appreciate the brevity of the message; he thought it inconsiderate when Sherlock was so ill to spend all of three seconds to inquire as to his current condition. On second thought, it was possible he typed it out quickly in between preventing two separate nuclear wars, in which case John should cut him some slack.

More lucid every day. In surgery for skin graft on scalp right now. Hoping all will go well. John wrote. He knew Mycroft wouldn't bother to read anything other than cold facts, so he didn't bother writing them.

Good. Let me know if my presence is required.

John would have slapped Mycroft for his nonchalance if he'd been in the room. Here John was, practically tearing his hair out with anxiety, and Sherlock's own brother didn't even deem it necessary to be here. John had dropped everything when Sherlock fell ill, and he recognised that Mycroft's occupation didn't allow for such an abrupt hiatus, but he still felt that the elder Holmes wasn't adequately fulfilling the role of big brother in this situation. Heaven forbid Harry got sick, John would certainly be there for her as much as was possible.

Unless it was right now, when Sherlock still needed him. Had their relationship really progressed so far? John would prioritise Sherlock over his blood sister if given the choice? John pondered this, but honestly couldn't think of anyone who could get him leave Sherlock. The eccentric detective had become his entire life since the day they'd met.

His thoughts returning to Mycroft, John wondered if maybe the British government simply couldn't cope with the situation. He was known for his infallible ability to wheedle his little brother out of whatever sort of trouble he found himself in. Maybe cancer, the beast undefeatable by even those with Mycroft's reach, scared him off. Maybe he merely didn't want to watch this dreadful spectacle unfold and avoided it like one squeezing their eyes shut during a horror movie. Or maybe Sherlock and Mycroft had some unspoken familial pact that cleared them of any obligation to witness the other's suffering. Their relationship went far deeper than John had ever been allowed to explore.

John sat down heavily, his mind reeling so forcefully with a whirlwind of thoughts that he felt mildly dizzy. He glanced at the clock to find that Sherlock had already been gone for two hours. He vaguely recalled some doctor outlining the procedure, but he couldn't remember how long they said it would take. He felt the first tendrils of panic clawing at his insides. His medical training allowed him to invent horrible ways in which routine procedures could go horribly wrong.

What if he didn't react well to anaesthesia? What if he was allergic to a particular metal in an instrument they were using? What if they didn't scrub in properly and he got another infection? What if they left tools inside of him? What if they were all in cahoots with a nefarious pharmaceutical industry and purposefully put him into a vegetative state so he'd be sent to a care facility that was really used for illegal organ harvest? Okay, that last one was incredibly unlikely. He was pretty sure that was the plot of a book he'd once read.

Regardless, he couldn't help but worry himself into the ground until Sherlock was returned to him alive and well—well being a relative term, given the circumstances. John considered how bad things had gotten for him to consider being in ICU fresh out of surgery "well." It pained him to realise he'd nearly forgotten what it was like for Sherlock to be healthy. He conjured mental images of the detective from many months ago, curled up on the couch deep in thought, playing the violin in front of the window at Baker Street, chasing criminals down dank alleys, and compared them to the Sherlock of present day. It was mortifying.

At least he didn't have to dwell on it for too long. Well, he didn't think it was too long, but he really had no sense of the passage of time unless he looked at the clock regularly. Sherlock was brought back into the room looking no different from before he'd been taken back. The dressings had obviously been changed, but the donor site wound that was the key difference was hidden by his gown and the sheet. The nurses explained to him the importance of keeping Sherlock still and not letting the graft slide around over the wound bed so it could adhere more thoroughly and efficiently.

John didn't think Sherlock would take the additional restriction too well, so he resigned himself to the imminent battle. Knowing the detective, he'd have his hands up in it before he even opened his eyes. John glanced at Sherlock's poor hands and wondered how hard he'd have to work to regain full mobility in his remaining fingers—if it was even possible. Forcing Sherlock Holmes to complete a physical therapy regimen did not sound at all like a pleasant experience. But if it was necessary, John would do it without hesitation. John Watson would do anything for Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock awakened slowly, his eyelids heavy with medication and fatigue. As John had feared, his first action was to reach for his head with his right hand. John managed to stop him in time without jostling his hand too harshly, but he earned himself a perfect view of Sherlock's missing digits. He didn't think he'd ever get used to that sight.

"John?" Sherlock muttered blearily.

"I'm right here, Sherlock. But you can't touch your head, it needs to start healing properly and you could mess it up," John explained. "Does it hurt? I can get them to give you more pain meds."

"No. Can't feel a thing."

"That's good. Is there anything I can get you?" Sherlock blinked several times as if he didn't understand the question and then glanced around the room. John recognised the look in his eyes: he was deducing.

"Where's the butchery blanket?" he asked.

"The what?"

"Butchery blanket," Sherlock repeated. "Lestrade's gift. It's gone."

"Oh," John understood. "The doctors didn't bring it when you were transferred to ITU. You were feverish, so the last thing you needed was extra insulation."

"Where is it?" Sherlock emphasised. John remembered how important that blanket had been for Sherlock, and instantly felt guilty for not having kept better track of it. Although, in his defence, he'd been panicking over Sherlock's condition at the time. Besides, it wasn't lost. If the hospital staff hadn't taken care of it properly, Mycroft would have.

"Give me a minute, I'll find it for you. We forgot to bring it in here when you were transferred. You didn't exactly need it at the time."

"You don't have to remind me. I could hear what was going on, for the most part. In case you weren't sure," Sherlock said. John had suspected as much, but was still taken aback at this mystery of the human brain.

"I thought you might be able to hear me. Is there anything in particular you need me to know that you know? If that makes any sense." John realised he was rambling, but it seemed like Sherlock wanted to say something but wasn't sure how to get it out.

"I could make out how excited you were when I started to wake up. It can't possibly have been that thrilling, could it?"

"Sherlock, it was one of the best moments of my life. You were gone for so long I feared you'd left me forever. I welcomed any sign that you were still alive."

"Did you... miss me?"

"Yes. With all of my heart. More than that, was terrified that you would die and leave me here all by myself."

"Dying is boring."

"I'm glad you think so, because you're forbidden."

"Well now you've said that, I really want to do it just for the sake of disobedience."

"Don't you dare. You've come far too close for my comfort."

"Yeah... sorry about that," Sherlock replied humbly. John would have yelled at him for making light of something that had affected both of them so drastically, but figured it was a coping mechanism. He knew how scary it was to witness; he couldn't imagine the terror of actually being on the brink of death.

"I'm just gonna go find your blanket," John said before promptly leaving the room. Fortunately, the nurses' station was well-manned with people he knew, and he asked them if they knew what had happened to it. He wasn't surprised to hear that Mycroft Holmes had ensured it was kept safe. He was told they would re-sanitise it and deliver it to Sherlock as soon as possible. John happily returned to Sherlock with the good news.

When he entered the room, he caught Sherlock about to poke at the dressing on his head. John swore under his breath; the man was undeniably a genius in some respects, but he could be such a child sometimes.

"Sherlock, stop right there. Did you parents ever tell you not to pick a scab because it would scar? Well, this is just like that, only magnified about ten thousand times. Touching it does you far more harm than good."

"It's a reflex. I didn't even realise I was doing it," he whined. At least if he had the energy to gripe, he must be feeling better. Complaining was definitely a step up from dying.

"If it's necessary, I can get them to restrain you again. Would that be preferable?"

"No. This is a hospital, not a prison. Although the distinction is becoming quite blurry."

"Sherlock, you're not in prison. Everything they're doing is to help you. If not, then they'd be going to prison."

"It all just seems counterintuitive. The meds are starting to wear off, and I feel like someone took a cheese grater to my thigh."

"They had to get it from somewhere, just be glad they didn't use your buttocks."

"That's an option? Ghastly."

"Yes, it's rather unpleasant. Consider yourself fortunate." John nearly chuckled at the irony of that statement. Right now, Sherlock was probably one of the least fortunate people on the planet. His own body set out to destroy him, the cure for that ailment also destroyed him, the preparation for another cure destroyed him even more, and the pathogens that had gained entry because of that preparation had utterly destroyed him. It didn't get much more unfortunate than that.

"I feel about as lucky as a one-leafed clover. Question: is there anything that could have gone wrong that didn't? I suspect that list is short," Sherlock stated.

"Well, you didn't die. That's a big plus. It didn't infect your heart or bones. Your body didn't attack the new bone marrow. You only lost two fingers, it could have been entire limbs. I could go on, or are you satisfied?"

"That's enough. Still not very pleased that you let the surgeons chop them off without my permission."

"You were in a coma. Permission falls to Mycroft, and he gave it. Sherlock, it had to be done. There was nothing left of them that wasn't infected."

"Doesn't mean I have to be happy about it." Sherlock again prepared to cross his arms, before stopping himself and huffing in frustration.

"Sherlock, you're not obligated to be happy about anything right now. Were I in your place, I'd be pretty depressed. Look on the bright side: the police can never get a comprehensive fingerprinting out of you."

"Is that an invitation to commit a crime?"

"Absolutely not. Plus, you'll be great at that magic trick where you pretend to pull your own finger off." This managed to elicit a slight chuckle from Sherlock, which John was delighted to hear.

"Do you realise how ridiculous I'll look in gloves?"

"I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would be happy to tailor your gloves. Heck, I'll learn to sew if it'll make you happy."

"If your sewing skills are anything like your typing skills, I'll pass. You type like a child in primary school. You'll chop off the wrong fingers if you try to tailor a glove."

"That was totally unprecedented. My typing methods are none of your concern. Where would you be without your blogger?"

"You do have a point. You'll have to do the typing from here on out, and I'll have to relearn if I don't want every O, P, and L to be missing. Hitting enter and backspace is going to be a nightmare."

"Sherlock, this doesn't change anything. You're too lazy to type. You once asked me to hand you your phone when it was sitting in your bloody coat pocket—the coat that you were wearing."

"I was busy."

"Maybe I was busy too."

"No you weren't."

"We're not going to do this. Not here, not now."

"You're just afraid you'll still lose an argument, even when I'm compromised."

"No. You've deduced wrong. This is not an argument, and if it was, I wouldn't be losing."

"Fine. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Speaking of sleeping, you should take a nap. So much talking looks to have tired you out."

"Not... tired," Sherlock yawned. John sighed at his stubbornness.

"Clearly. I'm going to get coffee, when I get back, you'd better be down for the count." Sherlock yawned again and turned his head slightly towards the good side for comfort. It took less than two minutes for a long, heavy blink to turn into sleep. John left the room and walked the familiar route to the hospital cafeteria. The coffee was stereotypically awful, but John had essentially survived off of caffeine for the past several weeks. He knew it wasn't healthy, but he physically couldn't stomach much actual food without feeling sick. The stress and anxiety had wreaked havoc on his digestive system, and he didn't think he'd begin to feel normal again until Sherlock was home and healthy.

God, he hoped that was soon.


	33. New Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this story has now reached over 2,000 hits. You guys are incredible, thank you so much for your continued support!

The first inspection of the graft site took place two days later. Sherlock's butchery blanket had been returned the previous day, and he clung to it like a baby to a teddy bear. He seemed more at ease swathed in images of brutally murdered people. Removing the dressing was an ordeal in itself, as they didn't want to upset any adherence that had already taken place. It looked much the same as before, but was now appeared covered in pinkish mesh. John took a picture as he'd promised Sherlock, though he didn't want to look at the raw wound any longer than was absolutely necessary. Dr. Janssen reported that everything was looking great, and that the stitches could come out immediately.

Thankfully, he made quick work of it. The donor site wound also had to be redressed. It had oozed significant amount, but Dr. Janssen assured them this was totally normal and would probably continue for up to three weeks. The smaller wounds on his hands were also examined, and all deemed healing properly. Both John and Sherlock stared at his shortened ring finger when the severed end was revealed. The stump had already begun to heal over, and Dr. Janssen encouraged him to begin moving it as much as was comfortable to improve future range of motion.

"Everything's looking great. Do you have any questions?" Dr. Janssen inquired.

"Is it normal that I can feel my fingers as if they're still there?"

"Yes. It's called phantom pain, and it'll gradually fade as your brain gets used to it."

"How long will that take?"

"It depends; everyone's different. Knowing what I do about your mind, it'll figure it out far faster than most. Anything else?"

"No."

"Thank you," John interjected, knowing Sherlock wouldn't thank the doctor. Once his body was healed, John would have to work on his manners. Dr. Janssen left the room without further commentary.

"I'm bored," Sherlock complained to John the second Dr. Janssen was out of earshot.

"That's a good sign; it means you're feeling better," John stated.

"No, it means I've traded one ache for another. Well, not quite a trade. The physical aspect had diminished just enough to allow my mind to focus on something else, but it doesn't have anything to do."

"Would you like to read some more of the book? We were in the middle of Murder on the Orient Express when you... you know."

"I figured out the ending already. It was all of them."

"How could you possibly have done that? You were half asleep most of the times I read to you."

"So I'm right. It was just a hunch, until you confirmed it."

"Bastard."

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, pretending to be scandalised.

"Very funny. If you don't want to listen, I'll read it to myself because I want to know how they reached that conclusion." John pulled out the book and opened to the bookmarked page. He began to read, but he'd become so used to reading aloud that it was difficult to focus on the content without hearing the words in addition to seeing them.

"You want to read aloud, don't you?" Sherlock deduced. "You're mouthing the words."

"Sorry, I've just gotten used to it," John defended.

"It's okay. Actually... I'd like it if you read to me." John was slightly taken aback at the request. He'd been surprised when Sherlock asked him to read during radiation treatments, but it was still somewhat odd to hear such a comment from the lord of apathy. Cancer had truly changed him.

~0~

Sherlock was moved out of ITU two days later. The transfer made John incredibly nervous, and he was tormented with images of Sherlock seizing before falling into a coma, failing to breathe, and flatlining while doctors violently pounded on his chest. If something drastic happened and they weren't in intensive treatment, he feared help would come too late for Sherlock.

However, nobody else shared this sentiment, and Sherlock was settled in shortly after the idea was proposed. John's anxieties about moving him were mostly unfounded; everything was progressing beautifully. The streptococcus had been annihilated, the skin graft was healing as expected, and his blood tests indicated the bone marrow transplant had worked. Sherlock's immune system was gradually rebuilding itself—unfortunately, so was his attitude.

He'd already deduced three nurses to tears, and his complaints of boredom were growing in number exponentially. John could tell he was mentally ready to get on with his life, but he and the doctors agreed that he was not physically ready. As much as he adamantly denied it, Sherlock was incredibly weak and frail. The combination of leukaemia, infection, and prolonged coma had depleted his energy reserves; he still slept nearly fifteen hours a day. Additionally, they had little idea how the infection had affected some of his other organ systems. He was still catheterised and fed exclusively through the nasogastric tube. In order for Sherlock to get any closer to going home, he'd have to attempt to stomach real food, something he hadn't done in six weeks.

"Sherlock, you do realise you're going to have to try solid food eventually. Your alternative is a permanent tube shoved straight through your abdominal wall," John stated. Dr. Janssen had suggested they begin weaning him off the feeding tube, a task which was proving far more difficult than it should be.

"Doesn't sound all that bad," Sherlock replied, picking idly at the dressing over the stump of his ring finger. John noticed this and snatched his hand away.

"Don't do that, you'll interfere with its healing."

"It's not like it's going to grow back, how much damage can I possibly do?"

"Knowing you, an inordinate amount. You're on the tail end of this, don't do anything that could put you in jeopardy."

"Fine, I'll stop. But I will not eat; I have the right to refuse."

"Sure you do, but it doesn't make any sense why you would. You want to get out of here, don't you?"

"Yes."

"This is the only way you're going to do that. If you refuse to eat, they could put you on psychiatric hold for anorexia nervosa," John threatened. This probably wasn't entirely true, but he was desperate for a way to convince Sherlock to eat.

"You're bluffing," Sherlock called him out.

"Try me." The stared at each other in a standoff for a solid two minutes before John broke his gaze. Maybe it was a sign of weakness, but Sherlock's eyes were directly beneath the now-uncovered wound on his head. The graft was gradually covering it, but it was still unpleasant to look at. He didn't think he'd ever get used to it. "Sherlock, you really do need to start eating at some point. If you won't try what they brought you, is there something I could request that you would at least attempt to swallow?" John inquired. Sherlock could just be purposefully trying to annoy him, but he sensed there was something deeper going on.

"John, I told you I don't want to. I'm not hungry."

"Of course you're not hungry; you haven't physically eaten in six weeks, your body is accustomed to receiving nutrients directly from that tube. But I don't understand why you won't give it a try if it'll get you closer to consideration of discharge." Sherlock turned away from John's gaze and stared blankly at the ceiling for a long time. He was either pondering a response or tuning John out completely. He hoped it was the former, but the latter was more likely.

Surprisingly, he did turn back and answer, but it wasn't anywhere near what John was expecting to hear. "I'm scared." This answer shocked John. There were many things on his mental list of possible reasons Sherlock wouldn't eat, and many were crazier than this. Sherlock Holmes was afraid. This did not happen often, so something big was afoot. John had no clue how to respond to a comment like this; Sherlock had never admitted to being frightened by anything.

"Why?" was the best John could come up with.

"I think I've forgotten how to eat," Sherlock replied. "What if I choke?"

"You're not going to choke, and you can't just forget how to eat. Or are you telling me you erased it from that hard drive of yours you call a brain?

"I don't think I deleted it, but it's been so long. Basically every experience I've had with food for as long as I care to remember involved crippling nausea and throwing it back up again an hour later. John, it hurts, and I don't want to go through that again." John could hear the fear and pain in Sherlock's voice, and he almost croaked with pity. He had to restrain himself from swaddling the detective in his arms to keep him out of harm's way. He just sounded so broken, like a man who'd been stripped of everything he'd ever cared about. In a way, he had. John couldn't think of a single aspect of Sherlock that hadn't been razed by this despicable disease. He wanted more than anything to take his place, to bear the weight of all his suffering.

"I know it's daunting, Sherlock, and you've no idea how much I want this all to be over, for your sake. But you'll never know what will happen until you try it. You'll start small, the goal is not to overwhelm your system. Also, you haven't had a chemo dose in a while, so the nausea should be minimal." When Sherlock showed no sign of acknowledging John's monologue, he decided he needed to go more personal. "Sherlock, if you won't do it for you, do if for me. Please, I need to see you recover from this. I need to bring you back to Baker Street, listen to you harp on me for being an idiot, follow you around on cases like a puppy and blog about them only to have you insult my every writing decision. If I can't do that, I don't know what I'll do with my life."

"John, you do realise you're saying that I am your entire life. Do you realise how pitiful that is?" John would have been offended by the comment, but he knew it was simply a defence mechanism of Sherlock's to hide behind arrogance and snarky insults.

"Maybe that's true, but I don't care. I love my life with you, and I wouldn't change one thing. Except for this right here, of course. If I met a genie, all three wishes would be to undo everything that's happened to you in the past months. You can call me a loser or whatever you please, but nothing you say can change my mind. I just want you back, and I want to stop anything you might do to prevent that."

Sherlock seemed blown away by this confession. John could practically see the unused gears of the portion of his mind reserved for emotion creaking into action. That soliloquy barely scratched the surface of how he felt about the situation and about Sherlock, but it was evidently enough for the detective.

"Fine. But I want the first thing to touch my lips to be a proper cup of tea. I want you to make it like you do at home," he insisted. John could think of many things that would be better nutritionally, but he would take what he could get. If anybody deserved tea, it was Sherlock.

"Deal. But I'll have to go back to Baker Street for a little while, will you be okay by yourself?"

"Yes; I'm not a child. I can certainly handle your brief absence."

"Just making sure. I'll just go. Don't do anything stupid."

"No promises."

John huffed at this last comment, but stood up and left the room. Sherlock was probably kidding, but John couldn't be certain. He didn't trust him not to royally screw something up out of sheer curiosity or boredom. Hopefully, the kettle would boil quickly.

John returned to Baker Street, inhaling the familiar scent as he entered. He hadn't been back since the night he'd had that horrible dream, and he shuddered at the memory of it. Sherlock dead. Such a concept was simply incomprehensible. Mrs. Hudson had apparently heard him come in, and came upstairs to greet him.

"Oh John, it's been so long. Why haven't you come back?" she questioned, embracing him in gentle hug.

"I'm sorry, it just didn't seem right to leave him. But he's doing so much better, Mrs. Hudson. So much better," John explained as she released him from her grip.

"Do they know when he'll be coming home?" John could see the hope in her eyes; the landlady truly cared for the eccentric detective.

"Not for certain, but we're on that route. I actually came here because Sherlock requested Baker Street tea, they want him to get back on solid food."

"Oh, that's wonderful! The flat feels so empty without my boys."

John felt sorry for the old woman, knowing how lonely it could be to live alone. He'd done it briefly after returning from Afghanistan and had hated every minute. Sure, he'd had severe PTSD and a psychosomatic limp, but the solitude didn't help matters any. He made his way into the familiar kitchen and dug the kettle out. The routine felt so familiar yet so foreign at the same time. It didn't seem right that he could do something as mundane as making tea when Sherlock was still in hospital. Guilt welled up inside him: why should he be able to have a normal life when Sherlock's was forever changed?

Before he let himself get carried away with terrible thoughts, he shook himself back to reality. He was here because Sherlock had asked him to make tea at Baker Street. His brain switched to autopilot with the familiar routine of getting the kettle and filling it. He zoned out and let the monotonous routine distract him from his tumultuous mind.

When the tea finished brewing, John poured it into a thermos to keep it warm. He made sure to clean it thoroughly; it was probably used to store one of Sherlock's experiments at some point, and those were never sanitary. He said a brief goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and made his way back to the hospital, thermos in hand.

He walked the route through the familiar corridors of the hospital. The smell of antiseptic hung heavily in the air, filling his lungs. The very atmosphere screamed 'sickness.' He quietly opened the door in case Sherlock was asleep, but his efforts were pointless. He was wide awake, casually flipping through the Beekeeper's Bible John had gotten him earlier. John stood in the doorway silently, watching him turn the pages with inordinate effort. He could tell Sherlock was frustrated with himself—who wouldn't be? His own body wasn't properly obeying the commands of his brain.

"I'm back," John announced. "I brought you tea."

Sherlock put the book aside and replied, "Thank you." The detective so rarely showed gratitude; John was taken aback. He grabbed a straw that a nurse had left on the bedside table and inserted it into the thermos, handing it off to Sherlock.

"Be careful, it's hot. And go slowly, you don't want to overwhelm your stomach," he warned. Sherlock took the cup gingerly in shaking hands. If it weren't for the lid and straw, he'd have already scalded himself by spilling hot tea. Sherlock gradually brought the straw to his lips and took a small sip. It was a strange sight to see a grown man drink from a straw like a child, but John was completely jaded to the out of the ordinary at this point. Sherlock hesitated to swallow, the taste of anything besides bile a foreign-but-not-unpleasant sensation.

"Everything okay?" John questioned when Sherlock didn't speak for a while after drinking.

"Yes. Just missed the taste of tea. I was savouring it," Sherlock answered. John knew it must have been really meaningful for him to do that; Sherlock never stopped ploughing ahead to savour anything.

"You can have more if you want to, as long as it's not upsetting your stomach too much." Sherlock complied and took many more sips over the next ten minutes. John relished the expression on his face; it was pure bliss compared to the frown he always displayed. He couldn't imagine how good it would feel to eat after not tasting food for so long, but Sherlock's evident joy gave John an idea. He drained half of the thermos before putting it aside to take a break. John asked, "Do you still feel okay?"

"Better than I have in a long time," Sherlock sighed.

"That's great. Hopefully, things will keep improving from here. You'll be back to your old self before you know it."

"John, you and I both know you don't believe that," Sherlock stated, seeing right through John's empty encouragement. The possibility of things returning exactly to the way they used to be was miniscule, the illness too severe not to leave permanent reminders. "I'm never going to get all the way back there."

"Not if you think about it like that. You're Sherlock Holmes, for goodness sake, aren't you all about mind over matter...or...transport, or whatever you call it? Isn't this just transport?" John was grasping at straws; all hope of fully getting his best friend back was quickly draining away. Tears burned at the back of his eyes, and he choked, "I've never seen you fail do anything you committed yourself to."

"John, look at me," Sherlock demanded. "Look at me, and tell me you see the same man you knew before." John glanced up and he tried—he really tried—but the figure before him was certainly not the same Sherlock Holmes. "John, whether you like it or not, this disease has changed me forever. My fingers are not going to grow back, neither is my hair—I looked it up, hair follicles rarely transfer with split-thickness skin grafts—and the remainder of my life will be haunted by the possibility of recurrence. Things will never be exactly the way they were before, but we just have to find a new normal."

John lost it.

Yet again, he found himself helpless as tears poured down his cheeks in a torrent. Everything was just too overwhelming; he couldn't handle this emotional stress any longer. He bent over and buried his soaking face in Sherlock shoulder, not giving a damn if it made him look weak and absurd. Sherlock's right hand came up to stroke his hair, and the feeling of only three fingers against his scalp only made him sob harder. Maybe it was ridiculous that he was handling this worse than the actual cancer patient, but he couldn't help how he felt.

"I don't want a new normal," he wept. "I just want my Sherlock back."

"John, I'm still here. I would never leave you, especially not in such a mundane manner. I'm afraid a new normal is all we have left to strive for, but I'll be by your side every step of the way."

They remained there for what felt like an eternity, and John only straightened when his back started to ache from hunching over. He felt horribly guilty for breaking down like that—he should be the one comforting Sherlock, not the other way around. He sat back down in the chair and dried his face with his hands. He looked back at Sherlock, only to find he'd fallen asleep. John wasn't sure if he'd conked out while he was still huddled over him, but it didn't really matter. They were going to be okay.


	34. Progress Again

Everyone was incredibly pleased with Sherlock's progress—except, of course, Sherlock. His strength was gradually returning, but not quickly enough for his liking. Over the past several days, he'd been able to keep down more and more food in one sitting. John remarked that he was eating more than he did when he was on a case, but Sherlock didn't find that very funny. It probably reminded him of how he used to spend his days, of a time when solving an ingenious murder and apprehending a criminal was an achievement. Now he received just as much praise for walking a few steps unaided. That morning, he'd made it all the way to the bathroom door and back with barely a stumble before collapsing back into bed.

John couldn't imagine the frustration of being rendered weak as a newborn calf, and he could see Sherlock's resolve was thinning. He thought Sherlock would actually throw a punch when the physical therapist handed him a stress ball.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with this?" he asked, his voice dripping in suppressed rage.

"Sherlock, you squeeze it," John answered, saving the therapist from the imminent verbal assault to her intelligence. She got the message and scurried out of the room.

"Why? Is there a genie inside?"

"No," John replied, blown away that Sherlock was even familiar with the plot of Aladdin. "Most people use it to alleviate stress—"

"I'm not stressed," Sherlock cut him off.

"—But, in your case, it's to strengthen your fingers. And you do seem a bit stressed."

"My fingers don't need strengthening. Heck, some of them are gone!"

"Sherlock, please stop arguing against everything the doctors tell you that you need. It's not going to help you get out of here any faster. Look how much stronger you've already gotten: three days ago, you couldn't stand on your own for more than a few seconds, and now you're walking unassisted. The only way to get your hands to function like they used to is to work at it, practice, and listen to your therapist." To prove his point, John snatched the stress ball out of Sherlock's hand and easily compressed it inside his fist. He handed it back to Sherlock, indicating for him to try the same. He placed it in his left hand and squeezed. The ball proved too much resistance, and barely shrank within his grip.

"See?" John said. "You need to work at it." Sherlock accepted defeat, and repeatedly squished the ball as he'd been instructed. He continued for far longer than John expected, to the point where John was concerned he'd overtire himself. "That's probably enough, you should switch hands now," he said. He could see Sherlock's left hand shaking with the continued strain. Fortunately, he obeyed and switched to his right hand. Without all five fingers to squeeze, this one was even less effective at compressing the ball. John thought Sherlock would explode with the effort before he finally dropped the ball and sighed with fatigue.

"That's way harder than it should be," he grumbled.

"If it was easy, it wouldn't be helping you get better. Recovery is not going to happen overnight."

"I know, but I'm just so tired of being sick." Sherlock flopped back against the pillows in exasperation. Of course he'd be on the end of his rope by now; nobody could work through something like this without at least partially giving in to despair. Honestly, John was surprised he'd made it this far with as little complaining as he had. But now that his mind was almost entirely back to normal, the frustration that his body couldn't keep up would only grow and fester. John only hoped that his encouragement and company would be enough to prevent him from completely giving up.

~0~

Sherlock had built up the strength to reliably make it to the bathroom door and back without collapsing from exhaustion, a milestone which even he acknowledged as acceptable progress. This, along with the fact that he was no longer near total organ failure, led Dr. Janssen to decide it was the perfect time to remove the catheter. Sherlock was understandably enthusiastic at this suggestion.

As soon as it was proposed, John left the room without waiting to be instructed. He hadn't been there for its insertion and saw no reason to keep Sherlock company for something so simple. It wasn't that he was squeamish about that sort of thing—he was a doctor, for goodness sake—but he didn't want to ruin his mental picture of a somewhat-immortal Sherlock. He'd never acted like a normal human being, and always seemed so far above the mundane routines of personal care, so for some reason acknowledging that he had a renal system like any other man detracted from that god-like image.

He decided to grab a much-needed snack; his appetite had grown somewhat since the stress of Sherlock being on death's door had abated. He loitered in the hallways for a few minutes, taking in the hustle and bustle of the hospital. He'd missed the constant sense of urgency upon leaving the army, but had found it again solving cases alongside the consulting detective. The thrill of chasing down a dangerous criminal provided the same adrenaline rush he'd become somewhat addicted to. Sadly, he wondered if Sherlock would ever be strong enough to live that kind of life again. Physics dictated that once dropped, a ball never bounced back all the way to the height where it started.

With this depressing thought in mind, John made his way back to Sherlock's room. Dr. Janssen was just leaving as he approached the door. He smiled, which John took as a sign that Sherlock hadn't been as unbearable a patient as he was capable of being. John thanked him and promptly entered the room.

"Better?" John asked the detective.

"Much," he replied.

"It's nice to know your mother's efforts in toilet-training you all those years ago will continue to be put to good use."

"Not funny."

"It was a little bit funny."

"No." John sensed this was an argument he was never going to win, so he gave up. It was nice to know Sherlock had retained his pig-headedness.

"Can I do anything for you?" John inquired after a silence just long enough to be awkward.

"John, I'm not an invalid. I don't need you to do things for me."

"I know that, it's just something friends do. They do things for each other, maybe not because they need to, but because they want to."

"Is that so? Would you finally let me have my mobile or a mirror so I can see what I actually look like now? My entire face could be polka-dotted and I'd be none the wiser."

John prided himself on how long he'd actually been able to prevent Sherlock from stealing something reflective. He himself had been startled upon seeing him for the first time, and he knew Sherlock's reaction would be even worse. Although, he suspected that Sherlock wasn't trying nearly as hard as he could be to catch a glimpse of himself, possibly because he was afraid to. John would be scared too if he knew something so drastic had happened to him.

"Sherlock, is there really nothing more important than staring at yourself in the mirror? I though you wouldn't care what you look like, as long as your brain is intact and functioning properly."

"John, I'm curious more than anything," Sherlock said, but John could read in his eyes that there was more than that.

"You and I both know that's not true."

Sherlock hesitated, evidently pondering how much he wanted to divulge. "John, I'm sure since you've met Donovan before that you're familiar with the fact that most of the general population considers me a freak. It was easy to ignore them before because they're all idiots, but I'm bound to be the centre of attention for the rest of eternity since all this happened. I can handle attention when it's admiration for solving a difficult case, but I don't want to be gawked at because of this. The last thing I want to give to Donovan and Anderson is more material to insult me with," Sherlock explained, wringing his hands nervously throughout the entire speech. At first, John was flabbergasted that he would open up and confess like that—Sherlock was known for avoiding sentiment and emotions like they were toxic chemicals. John reconsidered that analogy, since he handled toxic chemicals without second thought.

He'd never before considered that Donovan's nickname for him had such an effect on the detective. He thought Sherlock was immune to such immature teasing; evidently, he was wrong. In the end, Sherlock was only human.

"Sherlock, I understand where you're coming from, but I hope you know that it's socially unacceptable to make fun of someone for something that's beyond their control."

"People tease you about being short all the time," Sherlock countered. "A person cannot do anything to alter their height."

"You're right, but that's a little different. You're not going to like this explanation, but it's unfortunately true. Nobody who knows what you've been through will dare tease you about it because they will always pity you. You will always be a cancer survivor, and people will always be afraid they'll say the wrong thing and upset you. Upsetting someone who's had such a devastating illness weighs much more heavily on the conscience than upsetting a smart-arse detective who's made it quite clear he thinks you're an idiot."

"But I don't want it to be like that. I don't want to be a cancer survivor."

"I'm sorry, but you're kinda stuck in that role. Unless you die."

"Can I?"

"No, Sherlock, you absolutely cannot. You did not come this far to throw it all away because you don't want people to pity you. You can ignore it; you're very good at just tuning people out. Besides, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and I are your friends. If you tell us that you don't want to be treated like that, then we will certainly try our best not to. Anyone who cares about you will respect your wishes to the best of their ability."

"What about people who don't?"

"They're not worth your time."

John watched as Sherlock contemplated this response and appeared to accept it. The conversation did not continue, and John was glad. His reserves of wisdom were sucked dry. John relaxed into the hospital chair and sighed contentedly. His lecture seemed to have done the trick. He'd never thought he'd have to encourage Sherlock to ignore other people, as he was so proficient in the skill already. Apparently nobody was immune to society's judgement.

They simply sat in silence for a long time, John on the verge of dozing off. He was pleased to see that Sherlock was doing the exercises the physical therapist had instructed him to: repeatedly making a fist, touching his thumb to each other finger, and bending them towards his palm like a claw. He'd been incredibly reluctant even to allow the physical therapist to enter the room, insisting that he didn't need any help, but John convinced him otherwise. He'd attempted to deduce the poor therapist, Dr. Kennedy, enough to get her to leave, but she'd barely rattled. John respected her for that. He was probably two blinks from nodding off completely when Sherlock spoke up.

"I have to use the loo." John had been so used to him being catheterised that this request surprised him.

"Okay. Do you need any help, or can you make it by yourself?"

"Alone," Sherlock grunted, swinging his legs over the side of the bed in order to stand up.

"Don't lock the door," John requested. "Just in case." He remembered what happened before when Sherlock had ventured to the restroom on his own, and had no desire to relive that. He bit his lip as Sherlock weakly hobbled across the floor to the loo. He made it without incident, and closed the door behind him. John listened for the click of the lock, and fortunately heard none. Sherlock had been humbled enough by his own frailty to actually listen to John for once. John certainly wasn't complaining.

Now, if John had a mind like Sherlock Holmes, he would have seen this coming a mile away. But John didn't have the mind of Sherlock Holmes, he had the mind of John Watson, a doctor pleased that his patient had regained some of his independence. A startled gasp from behind the door made him realise his mistake: bathrooms had mirrors. John braced himself for the shocked, angry outburst that was to follow, but was astonished to instead hear this:

"John! It's heart-shaped!" Well, he'd managed to keep Sherlock from seeing himself longer than he expected to. At least he didn't seem that upset. Sherlock wrenched open the bathroom door and hurtled out. He didn't look distressed, but enthusiastically amused.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked.

"It's heart-shaped! Did you know this?" John considered for a moment how many times he'd seen that wound, how many times he'd stared at it in wonder and pity. Apparently, he'd been too focused on the sheer severity and extent of the debridement to pay any attention to the shape. He glanced at it now, and realised that Sherlock was absolutely right. The wound was almost perfectly heart-shaped, with the point falling just above his right eyebrow and the Ommaya reservoir bump atop his head resting at the pointed indent between the two halves.

"You're right, it does look like a heart," John remarked. "Glad you found a way to laugh about it."

"Am I really to be branded with a heart-shaped scar for the rest of my life?" Sherlock sounded somewhat alarmed, but John could hear the underlying amusement. He was being dramatic for the fun of it.

"Yes. Unfortunately, it'll give people a horribly false impression of your personality. Do you think we could ask the surgeons to go back in and make it look more like a skull and cross-bones?"

"Very funny, John."

"Hey, if you hate it, you can always wear the hat."

"The ear hat?! Never!"

"It's called a deerstalker, and you might change your mind when the temperature drops. A bald head can be quite chilly. If you really hate it, maybe a fedora is more your style? Or a fez?

Sherlock stared blankly at John for a few moments—so long that John feared he was having an absence seizure—but then collapsed into laughter more joyous than John had ever heard escape the throat of the stoic Sherlock Holmes. John laughed too, enormously pleased to have given his friend an innocent moment of pleasure. They say that laughter is the best medicine, and both Sherlock and John felt the healing effects of a good chuckle.


	35. Home

"Really?" was John's initial reaction when Dr. Janssen said Sherlock was ready to be discharged. He could eat enough on his own now, so they'd removed the feeding tube, and he was strong enough to get around on his own. John understood there was no reason to stay any longer, but they'd been here so long it was almost difficult to remember they had a real home. The concept seemed a little daunting, and he feared something terrible would happen when they were out of the direct reach of medical professionals. Sherlock, on the other hand, was absolutely elated to hear this. John knew he'd been desperate to leave since the moment he set foot in here—who wouldn't be—and that enthusiasm for returning to Baker Street hadn't waned in the least.

They were allowed to leave as soon as all the paperwork had been filled out. Mycroft had evidently pulled some strings, as they were told it would all be handled without much effort on their part. Meanwhile, Dr. Janssen brought Dr. Harrison back to discuss a maintenance phase of chemotherapy, a subject Sherlock was not thrilled to bring up. John knew it was necessary, but he still didn't like the idea of regular reminders of how sick Sherlock really was. He'd still receive treatment for up to two years.

"We're looking at a dose about once every four months," Dr. Harrison explained. "Maintenance therapy may greatly prolong your remission and prevent the leukaemia from coming back." Sherlock didn't seem too pleased, but he didn't argue, and John decided that was a good sign. Neither of them would like it, but it was the right thing to do for Sherlock's health.

"Another thing to remember is that your immune system is still not as strong as a healthy person's, and it may never be. You'll be extremely susceptible to illness, so I recommend taking extra precautions, especially when you go out in public."

Sherlock didn't answer verbally, but John took his lack of a retort as affirmation. As much as he hated to acknowledge it, their lives would never be the same. He remembered their earlier conversation, when Sherlock had encouraged him to accept their new normal. Sherlock was handling the situation beautifully, not lamenting the past, so John forced himself to stop feeling so bad. He was the fortunate one in their situation.

Mycroft had someone drop off clothes for Sherlock, which he dug into like a child on Christmas morning. Of course he wanted to leave wearing one of his notorious suits. John tried not to giggle as he threw his trousers on with the enthusiasm of a kid playing dress-up. A shirt was more difficult, as his healing fingers lacked the dexterity for doing up the buttons. John watched him struggle and wondered if Sherlock would ever work up the humility to ask for help. Finally, he sat down on the edge of the bed and looked despairingly at John.

"Do you need help?" John inquired. Sherlock nodded forlornly, and John proceeded to button his shirt. The angle gave him a perfect view of the healing skin graft on his head, and the image of the wound at its worst flashed behind his eyes.

"John?" Sherlock questioned when his fingers suddenly froze, still gripping the edges of the shirt. He shook himself out of his reverie and finished the last several buttons. Sherlock's shirts had always fit him tightly, the buttons nearly bursting off, but now it hung off his emaciated frame. John saw no foreseeable way to get him to stomach enough food to bring his weight back up to normal. Despite this, it was a relief to see the detective looking so much more like his old self. He looked happier.

John knew it was rather chilly outside, and he peered into the bag Mycroft had sent for something to cover Sherlock's bare head. He smiled when he laid eyes on the infamous deerstalker. He plucked it out of the bag and presented it to Sherlock.

"Absolutely not," he said.

"Sherlock, it's cold outside," John countered.

"I don't care, I'm not wearing the ear hat."

"You'll freeze. I hate to remind you, but your head isn't as insulated as it used to be."

"I'm fully aware of that, yet I still won't get hypothermia in the brief trip from the front door to the car Mycroft has sent for us."

"How do you know—" John began.

"He's Mycroft. Of course he's sent a car."

"Of course. But please, just wear the hat?"

"No." John recognised this as a losing battle, but he had one more strategy to try. He placed the deerstalker on his own head. Sherlock noticed this, and immediately chastised, "John, you look ridiculous."

"I could say the same of you, Saint Valentine," John teased. He felt somewhat remorseful for a jab like that, but now that the ordeal was behind them he knew that it needed to be turned into something humorous.

"Not fair," Sherlock whined. "Just give me the hat." John complied, and Sherlock reluctantly thrust it onto his own head. With one last glance around the room they'd spent so much time in, they made their way out and towards the front lobby.

John paid close attention to Sherlock as he stepped outside for the first time in far too long. The detective paused to inhale a long, slow breath of fresh air free of the permeating scent of antiseptic. It was quite chilly outside, and John could barely restrain himself from blurting out an 'I told you so' when he saw Sherlock pull the deerstalker tighter over his head.

As Sherlock had predicted, one of Mycroft's signature black cars was waiting for them outside the hospital. A man in a black suit stepped outside and opened the door for the two men. John started towards the waiting vehicle, and stooped to step inside when he noticed Sherlock hadn't moved any further beyond the threshold of the hospital.

"Sherlock, are you coming?" he asked. Sherlock shook his head back and forth vigorously, then nodded.

"Sorry. I just haven't smelled London in so long, I had to reacquaint myself with it." Only Sherlock would consider a city an acquaintance. John stepped into the car, followed shortly by Sherlock. Mycroft's henchman shut the door behind them and returned to the driver's seat of the car. Sherlock stared intently out the window as they rolled away from the kerb and into the hustle and bustle of the London streets.

John wanted to start some sort of conversation, fill the heavy silence that now permeated the air between them, but he sensed Sherlock just wanted to enjoy the moment. The feeling of liberation must be so intense, John couldn't even imagine. He'd spent a decent amount of time in hospital for the gunshot wound to his shoulder, but nothing the likes of Sherlock's odyssey. It would take some time to reacclimate to their old life at Baker Street after so long living at the hospital.

The thought of their old life made John wonder if Sherlock was deducing passersby; he was certainly concentrating intently on whatever lay on the other side of the window. He knew that a return to normalcy was a long way off—if it ever came at all. During their conversation a few days ago, Sherlock had confessed to John that he'd already accepted a new normal as the only goal they could strive for. John commended his recognition of things that simply couldn't be changed, but wondered why he himself was so unwilling to accept that things were going to be different. Why couldn't he accept it like Sherlock could? He wasn't even the one who'd suffered such a life-altering ordeal.

He vowed to keep any negative thoughts to himself; Sherlock needed support and encouragement, not pining for what once was. He could always read old blog posts and reminisce about the good old days before this horrid disease had stormed in through the window and wrenched them away down a rabbit hole of despair. Of course, the casework would eventually return once Sherlock built up his strength. He was too addicted to the thrill of solving mysteries to let anything stop him from doing that. But John would force him to eat and sleep while working, no matter how much he protested. In his opinion, basic biological needs had always been more important than solving the puzzle at optimum efficiency, but such 'frivolities,' as Sherlock would likely put it, were even more important now.

He glanced across the seat at the subject of his mental ramblings; he hadn't moved an inch. John looked more closely—observed—and witnessed what appeared to be a new fidget or nervous tic. Sherlock had always been restless, jumping on furniture, shooting the walls, and procuring all sorts of nasty experiments to leave for John to find in the fridge. This was more low-key, barely noticeable unless the observer knew Sherlock. He was continuously fingering the stumps of his little fingers with his left hand.

This could just be an innocuous fidget, but John knew his flatmate better. He was obsessed with what he'd lost. Beyond the fact that he could tear the fragile skin that had just grown over, John worried his infatuation with being less than whole would hold him down. Depression was commonly associated with cancer victims, and Sherlock was especially at risk because of his innate need to be the best and brightest. John would be on the lookout for a Sherlock more grumpy and morose than usual.

When the familiar red awning of Speedy's came into view, Sherlock almost didn't wait for the car to stop before throwing the door open and dashing up the familiar door marked 221B. John smiled at his enthusiasm; it reminded him of the zeal with which he approached a fresh crime scene. He followed him up and moved to insert the key in the door. Much to his surprise, Sherlock grabbed him by the wrist and took the key from him. Normally, he wouldn't bother with such a mundane task, but John suspected he wanted to make sure he wasn't totally crippled. He struggled with getting it into the lock and almost dropped it, but managed to catch it before it could fall. A good minute and a half later, they stepped into their flat together for the first time in far too long.

Of course, Mrs. Hudson accosted them as soon as she heard the door creak open. Sherlock was nearly knocked off his feet by a bone-crushing hug from the landlady. John laughed at the deer-in-headlights expression on his face at being so suddenly embraced.

"Oh Sherlock, it's so good to have you back home," she sighed, finally releasing him. He dusted himself off and smiled at her.

"It's good to be back," he replied. Mrs. Hudson stood there and stared happily at her tenant, hugging him once again before excusing herself. John found the briefness of her greeting slightly suspicious, but he suspected she wanted to give the two of them a moment alone.

John watched as Sherlock seemingly drank in the sights and scents of their home. He was so elated for the man; this sense of home must be akin to returning from war. Mycroft's chauffeur covertly carried the bag of their things from the hospital upstairs, and Sherlock didn't even notice this intrusion. He stepped over to the staircase and ran his left hand along the banister, almost as if petting a dog.

John refrained from speaking, choosing to allow his friend to enjoy this momentous step. Sherlock started up the stairs, and John followed behind in case he stumbled. John recalled the hundreds of occasions Sherlock had raced up these stairs three at a time. He was probably thinking of the same things, as he made his way one at a time, clutching the banister like a lifeline. As much as John hated to admit it, it was a sorry sight.

Fortunately, he made it all the way to the top without so much as a slip. However, John could see the sheen of sweat on his brow and hear his laboured breathing. Sherlock made straight for his chair and dramatically flung himself into it. John smiled at such a Sherlockian gesture and plopped down in his own chair. He was exhausted from the events of the morning, so he couldn't imagine how drained Sherlock must feel.

"So, how does it feel?" John finally broached the question he'd been dying to ask.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, folding his hands in the classic steeple—John couldn't help but remark how different it looked with only nine and a half fingers. "Indescribable," the detective sighed, sinking even deeper into the armchair.

"I'm so happy for you," John replied. "You must have missed this place."

"You've no idea."

John let the conversation end there, as Sherlock didn't appear to be in a mood to talk. However, he didn't want to leave yet, he was content to sit here with Sherlock and just enjoy being home again. He grabbed a random book from the nearby table and flipped through the pages, not bothering to actually read the words. If he tried to read, he found himself glancing up repeatedly just to check that Sherlock was still there—that this wasn't just a dream. He was so glad to have him back home he felt like squealing with joy, but figured such an explosion of sentiment would be frowned upon. Barely five minutes later, John sensed a change in Sherlock's breathing pattern: he'd fallen asleep.

John chuckled to himself. The poor thing had had simply too much excitement for one morning. The most humorous aspect of the picture was the fact he'd yet to remove the deerstalker, so it had drooped down to cover his eyes. While that position couldn't possibly be comfortable, John doubted he'd have the strength to move Sherlock's lanky frame to his bedroom down the hall, even at its reduced weight. Instead, he fished the butchery blanket out of the bag Mycroft's henchman had left and tucked it gently around Sherlock. He shifted slightly and mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like, "John," and the doctor smiled. It took a lot of willpower not to snap a picture.

~0~

Sherlock slept for six hours, probably the best rest he'd ever gotten within the walls of 221B Baker Street. John kept himself busy throughout the flat, checking in on the detective every half hour or so. Sherlock had grabbed the blanket and curled it even tighter around himself, making John wonder if the flat was too cold. It was comfortable for him, but he had much more natural insulation than Sherlock, so he turned the temperature up a little bit. When the detective finally awoke, he did so with a melodramatic yawn and exaggerated stretch.

"Sleep well?" John inquired.

"Yes, actually," Sherlock replied. Then he appeared to realise he was still wearing the deerstalker hat, and he threw it off with a flourish.

"Why'd you do that? You look great in your Sherlock Holmes hat."

"For the last time, John, it's not a Sherlock Holmes hat. I only put it on in the first place because I am regrettably bald at the moment, and you made me."

"I don't think I could ever make you do anything. And I think you're pulling off the hairless look pretty damn well," John remarked. He wondered how Mrs. Hudson would have interpreted that comment if she'd been here to see it. He attempted to redeem himself by adding, "It makes you modest: no more mussing up your curls just to attract attention."

"I do not do that," he insisted.

"Yes you do. We've all seen you do it."

"Who is this we? Are you a part of some cult of which I'm unaware?"

"Yes. Excellent deduction."

"Your sarcasm is duly noted. And modestly has never exactly been an aspiration of mine. But this is far more attention-drawing than any amount of curl-mussing, as you so eloquently put it," he said, gesturing to the massive scar taking up nearly half his scalp.

"I think it gives you an aura of mystery. Like a pirate with a peg leg, people will wonder what the hell happened, but be too scared to ask."

"I swear, if you've been talking to Mycroft about the more immature exploits of my youth, I will never speak to you again."

"No, I haven't been talking to your brother. But I think you should. I'm sure he knows you were discharged, but if I were him, I'd want to hear from you."

"You're not Mycroft. I'm sure he's giddy with excitement at being relieved of such an obligation."

"I think you underestimate how much he cares for you," John said, remembering some of the British Government's more revealing actions during the touch-and-go moments of Sherlock's hospital stay. Sherlock simply stared at him as if he'd just suggested they go searching for unicorns in Hyde Park. "Sherlock, you're his little brother, not an obligation." Having someone like Harry for a sister, John knew all about how strained sibling relationships could become, but he certainly loved her deep down inside of him, and hoped she felt the same.

However, the Holmes brothers seemed locked in some eternal combat with each other, each convinced the other was completely indifferent, when in reality they were probably the most important person in each other's lives. John had witnessed firsthand how distraught the elder Holmes had become when Sherlock was so close to death, a sight he prayed he'd never have to see again. Mycroft acted like his younger brother was nothing more than a nuisance he was forced to keep up with because of some sense of fraternal duty, but the dire circumstances had revealed the truth. Sherlock acted like he loathed Mycroft, but John suspected that was a facade to disguise how he actually appreciated his protectiveness. He'd certainly used Mycroft's government influence to his advantage on several occasions.

"Mycroft cares about little more than his job security and dinnertime," Sherlock stated.

"You're wrong. I don't know what caused this feud you two are always pretending to be locked in, but you need to forget about it and call your brother. Sherlock, when you were on the brink, Mycroft was nearly in tears. In tears." John didn't think he'd ever forget the expression of despair on Mycroft's face when Sherlock flatlined the first time. Sherlock remained conspicuously silent after this statement, and John hoped he was reconsidering his relationship with his brother.

Much to John's surprise, he rose from the chair, snatched up his mobile phone, and disappeared into his bedroom. He felt an impulse to follow him and listen to the conversation at the door, but refused to allow himself to invade Sherlock's privacy in such a crude manner. This was a matter between two Holmes, and Watson didn't belong in the middle of it. Instead, he waited for Sherlock to return. He spent much longer in the bedroom than John would have predicted: either he'd had to psych himself up before calling, compose himself after calling, or he'd actually had a reasonable conversation with his brother. Or the whole thing was a charade, and he was pretending. John wouldn't put it past him.

However, when Sherlock returned, John used the minimal deduction skills he'd managed to pick up from working with Sherlock to conclude beyond a doubt that he'd really called Mycroft. John wanted to ask him about it, but could tell by the look in Sherlock's eyes that such an inquiry would not be well received. He opted to instead pursue another question which had been bothering him ever since Lestrade had presented Sherlock with his gift.

"Could you tell me about the older cases on the blanket? The ones from before you met me?" John asked.

"Which one?"

"Whichever was your favourite."

"Well, there's one in particular I remember quite fondly. It was a double murder—those are always interesting. Two unrelated people who had absolutely no reason to be together were found shot dead in a back alley. Their bodies had been manipulated so they were entwined with each other as if making love—rather disturbing for everyone involved. It turns out that they had been on a blind date, set up by a mutual friend. Well, it wasn't a friend—he'd set them up just to get them in the same place so he could take them out in one go. Rather clever of him, since two separate murders would leave more room for error."

"How'd you figure it out?" This was always John's favourite part of a mystery: Sherlock revealing the thought process that led him to his seemingly miraculous conclusion.

"Well, the blind date part was easy; their clothing was obviously catered to such an occasion. Tracing it to the killer was somewhat more difficult. It involved a journey through London in search of three American quarters that were missing from the woman."

"How did you know she was supposed to have American money?"

"It was a precise calculation based on the amount of other American money still present in her wallet from her recent trip across the Pond, and a receipt for some trinket she bought in New York," Sherlock explained.

"Why did the killer take the quarters?" John asked, puzzled.

"To this day, I do not know why he felt the urge to rob her of less than a single pound's worth of money; nonetheless, he did, and it led to his capture."

"Exactly how did those three quarters allow you to track him down?"

"John, I think a certain degree of mystery makes a friendship far more exciting, wouldn't you agree?" he said, a playfully malicious glint in his eye. He wasn't going to tell John how he did it. John shook his head and sighed; sometimes he wondered why he stuck around.


	36. Life Goes On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we near the end of this story, I have two small favors to ask of you readers. If you have any ideas for things you want to see take place in this universe, please let me know in a review or PM so I can work on turning your desires into one-shots to accompany Fragile. In my opinion, there's not enough to work with for a full-blown sequel, but there are infinite possibilities for shorter stories to go along with. I have a couple ideas of my own, but it's always helpful to know what the audience wants. The second favor I'll explain more at the end of this chapter, since I'm sure you're anxious to start reading.

After that first night home, John awoke late in the morning, in his own bed. This threw him off guard: since when did he sleep here? Didn't he spend most nights hunched over in a chair at Sherlock's bedside? He was reminded of the night he'd offended Sherlock and slept at home, only to dream of his best friend's death.

Had their coming home been just a dream? John sprang out of bed and sprinted downstairs, fully prepared to bolt out the door. He stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of the detective lazily sprawled out on the couch in their living room. His sigh of relief was loud enough to be heard by Sherlock.

"Good morning, John. Where are you off to in such a hurry?" he inquired innocently, straightening up. John considered telling him the truth, but decided against it. He didn't need to break down in front of him again. From here on out, they only moved forward, not backwards.

He procured some lame excuse, "Nowhere, just excited to start a new day," and chided himself for being so stupid. Sherlock glanced at him with the familiar deductive glare, and seemed to decide it wasn't worth his time to pry any further. "When did you get up?"

"Around seven. That's when the shifts changed at the hospital; all the people bustling around always woke me up. Guess I got used to it," he sighed. John wondered how Sherlock could so casually discuss the place in which he'd been cooped up for so long. Sherlock didn't like to dwell on things he wanted to forget—he literally deleted them—so John figured he wouldn't hear a whisper of that god forsaken place.

"What've you been doing since then?" John asked. It was already half nine, and a bored Sherlock would have certainly woken him up sooner.

"Thinking," he replied tersely.

"About what?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Would I have asked if I didn't?"

"Yes. People ask question they don't really want the answers to all the time. If I only had a pound for every time someone asked me what I thought, only to gape appallingly at my response and walk away, I'd be richer than the cake Mycroft's undoubtedly treating himself to now that his babysitting duties have been rescinded.

"Well, this isn't one of those times. Your thoughts are often fascinating."

"Well, I've been thinking about what to do with my life now that this whole ordeal is—hopefully—behind us," he said. John blanched at his used of the word 'hopefully.'

"What do you mean? I assumed you'd throw yourself back into casework as soon as you're well enough."

"How can I expect anyone to take me seriously anymore?"

"Sherlock, if I'm being frank with you, most of Scotland Yard never has and never will take you seriously. Not that you'd give any of them the time of day."

"If you're referring to Anderson, he deserves every morsel of abuse I've ever hurled at him."

"That may be true, but you do not need to worry about people taking you seriously. Your brain still works as magnificently as it always has. I have no doubt you'll be able to solve cases you deign yourself to work on with as much ease as you always have. While I may forbid you from actually chasing down the culprits yourself, the mental part of the work won't change a bit," John explained, trying to keep the desperation out of his tone. A Sherlock without crimes was like a carousel without horses: moving around aimlessly in circles with no purpose whatsoever.

"You said so yourself, I'm nothing but a cancer survivor now."

"Absolutely not. I never said that. What I did say is that you will always be a cancer survivor, but I certainly did not imply that's all you are. You are so much more than what you call 'Transport,' and everyone who's ever met you knows it. I will drag you out of this flat to work on a case, even if it's only a three on your ridiculous scale, because I know that nothing in the world makes you happier. If you really don't want to face Lestrade's team, you can send me with Skype, but under no circumstances will I allow you to stop being a consulting detective."

"You make a valid point. And I shiver to think about how many criminals would walk away with the likes of Lestrade as the only means of catching them."

"That's the Sherlock I know."

"While physically attending a crime scene always provides crucial information, there is one thing that needs to be sorted out before I even consider going anywhere beyond the walls of this flat."

"And what is that?"

Instead of a verbal response, Sherlock histrionically gestured to his head. John had gotten so used to this new look: the pale sheen of a perfectly bald head interrupted only by the reddish-pink of the healing skin graft. They'd been told it might take up to a year before it healed as much as it was ever going to, and the new skin wouldn't be able to grow hair since the follicles weren't transferred. He didn't stop to consider how alien and potentially frightening it would be for someone who wasn't well-acquainted with the circumstances to see Sherlock like this. He might not even be recognized.

"The way I see it, you have three options," John began. "One: get a wig. It could match your real hair, or you could change it up, maybe get a rainbow afro." This remark earned an amused huff. "Two: wear a hat. It doesn't have to be the hat, but you're the only person who seems to not like it. Three: just embrace it. Personally, I like it; it makes you look even more intimidating than you usually do. Some of us can hide our battle scars just by putting on a shirt, like me, but you don't have such a simple option. You're stronger than some flesh-eating bacteria: wear it proud."

"So wonderful to know my strength exceeds that of microbes literally too small to be seen," Sherlock stated, but John could tell he'd been somewhat intrigued by that little speech. He ran his left hand across the stumps of his fingers in thought.

"Do any of those sound acceptable?" John questioned.

"I've yet to reach a verdict."

"Well, you can always try one or the other out just to see if you like it or not. None of them are permanent."

"Unfortunately, some things are."

~0~

News of Sherlock's discharge had been spread only to those close to him, but both Molly and Lestrade were far too busy to come and visit. John wasn't sure if Sherlock would have appreciated company or not; all he seemed to do was wander around the flat, sleep, and think. He also diligently did his physical therapy, John was pleased to note. One day, he accidentally walked in on Sherlock in the bathroom going through a pile of hats from his repertoire of disguises, periodically trying one on. He hadn't said a word about the encounter, and neither had the detective.

Their simple routine was interrupted one day by Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, squeezing his stress ball with a vengeance, as if the small object had personally offended him, while John was reading the paper.

"This just arrived, it's addressed to you," she announced, producing a small parcel and handing it to Sherlock. He looked at it from all angles, assessing its size, shape, and weight.

"Who sent it?" he inquired.

"Not sure, it was just dropped on the doorstep without even a return address."

"Correct, it wasn't even sent through the post. Someone must have personally dropped it off here. Close friend, then? Or enemy?"

"Sherlock, just open it," John insisted. "Maybe there's a card inside telling you who it's from. Sometimes there's an easier way than deductions."

"Maybe easier, but definitely not as much fun," he quipped. However, he heeded John's advice and worked the tape off the box. John walked over to peer into the box as Sherlock unwrapped the tissue paper surrounding the contents. Remembering the butchery blanket, John wondered if this was another similar gesture from Lestrade, possibly something to keep Sherlock happy and busy now that he wasn't so desperately sick. When the identity of the object was revealed, though, John was puzzled.

It was a pair of simple, black gloves. Was this some sort of obscure message only Sherlock would understand? The detective seemed equally as curious about them as John was, and he gently picked one up. With only one glove left in the box, John could make out its outline more clearly. It had been specially tailored to fit the new shape of Sherlock's right hand. The little finger had been eliminated, and the ring finger significantly shortened.

John wondered who would come up with such a thoughtful gift, when he recognised the handwriting on the card resting inside the box. Molly. She'd gone through all the trouble to have these made especially for Sherlock. John's admiration for the woman knew no bounds.

"Incredible," Sherlock remarked. "Why would she do such a thing?"

"Because she cares about you," John replied, assuming Sherlock had already guessed the identity of the gift-giver the same way he had. "You should try them on." Sherlock first donned the left glove, then the right. It fit perfectly, the adjusted fingers exactly the right length. He turned his hands back and forth, examining the fit of his new accessory. Maybe he'd become as attached to them as he was to his scarf, John thought.

Sherlock carefully removed the gloves and moved on to the card. It was a simple envelope with "Sherlock," written on the outside in Molly's signature scrawl. John knew firsthand what the stress of medical school could do to one's penmanship; he often hard a hard time deciphering his own notes. Sherlock opened the enveloped with uncharacteristic gentleness.

Sherlock,

I'm so glad to hear that you're home now. You've fought so hard, you deserve a break. But I expect to see you in my mortuary begging for corpses as soon as you're ready. I figured you could probably use something custom made, so I broke out my old sewing kit. It was nothing like closing up after an autopsy, but I think I managed to do it well enough that they won't fall apart on you. If they do, just let me know and I'll have a real tailor handle it.

I feel so bad to know that I may have caused this, and every day I think about how things might have been different if I hadn't acted like such an impulsive idiot. I hope you don't hold it against me, but I won't blame you if you do.

-Molly

John somewhat regretted reading the note over Sherlock's shoulder, but the detective made no move to hide it from his view. Of course Molly would blame herself for what happened, even if they had no definitive answer as to what caused the infection. It could have been any number of things, Molly's visit just one of them.

"Sherlock, you should write her a thank-you note," John suggested. Instead of protesting like John expected, he nodded in acquiescence. At least some changes were for the better.

~0~

Throughout the next several days, John noticed that Sherlock would periodically put on those custom gloves just for the hell of it. He'd written the thank-you note, forbidden John to read it, and mailed it himself, something John had never seen him do before. The detective communicated almost exclusively through text. Since he hadn't gotten to read what his letter said, he sent Molly a quick text to let her know how much Sherlock appreciated her gift, just in case the note didn't cover it adequately.

He also let Lestrade know how much use his butchery blanket was getting. Sherlock brought it into his room every night to sleep with, and brought it back out every morning to drape it across his chair. If he decided to rest or nap in the living room, the blanket went with him. John had taken it to wash yesterday, and Sherlock had almost torn the flat apart looking for it. Fortunately, John informed him of the situation before he resorted to ripping open the walls. When the dryer finished, he sprang out of his chair and dashed over to fish it out. John hadn't seen him that attached to any tangible object, with the possible exception of his violin.

He knew that an instrument which required such meticulous dexterity would be difficult to play with limited strength and range of mobility. As diligently as Sherlock had been following through with his PT, he hadn't so much as glanced at the violin case in the corner of the room.

Until the day he decided to try it out.

John was in the kitchen, eating breakfast alone, as Sherlock had refused. His eating was definitely much improved, but his meal routine was abnormal and almost never coincided with John's. As with everything he did, Sherlock only ate when it suited him. John leafed through the day's paper, trying to find something that wasn't uber-depressing, when he heard the tell-tale click of the case opening.

He debated leaving the table and sitting in his chair to watch more closely, but decided against it. The first time was bound to be rough, and he knew Sherlock didn't appreciate an audience to his own failure. He watched surreptitiously as Sherlock gently picked the instrument up and caressed it like a father to his child. He could smell the aged wood and rosin his brain now associated with beautiful music.

Sherlock plucked and adjusted each of the strings individually; the violin was severely out of tune from lack of use. He hesitated to pick up the bow. John knew Sherlock could no longer achieve a proper grip on it, but hoped he would find a way to work around it. John wasn't a huge fan of the three-in-the-morning concerts, but beyond that he loved listening to the sounds of the violin fill the flat.

John surreptitiously watched from behind the newspaper as Sherlock lifted the violin to his shoulder and fingered the strings without using the bow, probably to assess how quickly and correctly he could manage the notes. After two or three minutes of this, he picked up the bow and raised it in preparation to play. John could see the quiver in the length of the bow; he couldn't hold it steady enough without proper grip.

Before a single note could pierce the thickening silence, Sherlock dropped the violin from his shoulder and threw it back onto the table with such force, John feared it would crack. He turned around and made a beeline for his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. John stared at the abandoned violin, mouth slightly agape.

What happened to make him quit so dramatically? Did he really expect to be able to play well after the trauma inflicted on his body? Of course Sherlock would have such an unrealistic expectation for himself. He'd probably been able to sail through Mozart his first time picking up the instrument; he wasn't used to it being difficult for him. He wasn't used to anything being difficult for him. But now almost everything was.

John remembered having to help him with the buttons on one of his dress shirts when they left the hospital. Now that they were home, Sherlock wore pyjamas all day long. John had assumed this was simply tiredness, but maybe he just didn't like to face the fact he couldn't button up a shirt. There was no doubt he could, if he kept at it, but John guessed he abhorred facing his own infirmity.

John knew he'd have to encourage Sherlock to keep trying at these things. If he just kept practising, he'd regain the majority of his old skills. John would have to make sure he didn't give up on himself, because that was a big step towards full-blown depression, and John would never forgive himself if he let his best friend fall into that abyss. But he knew better than to go after Sherlock while he was sulking; he'd have to wait until he came out of his sanctum of sadness of his own accord. Then John would set him straight.

~0~

Sherlock didn't know what possessed him to try the violin in the first place. Maybe he missed the feel of the instrument against his chin, or the gentle swoop of the bow across the strings. Or maybe he missed the way the music was somehow able to channel his emotions when they became too much for words—which was often, far more often than most people who knew him would ever suspect.

He'd mastered the art of faking stoicism; everything he hadn't picked up from Mycroft as a child he'd taught himself. He'd had a lot of practice throughout his life, but that didn't mean the dreaded feelings didn't constantly threaten to burst through his carefully constructed barricade. In the past months, he'd been tested well beyond his limits. The trials and tribulations of cancer had forced him to reveal much more vulnerability than he deemed acceptable.

Without a doubt, he'd wrecked John's opinion of him. He'd worked so hard to build himself up, starting with his "Afghanistan or Iraq" introduction. He'd been a lot less confident about that deduction than John assumed; it took a massive effort to conceal his relief when John's reaction proved him right.

Now he knew John couldn't even look at him without seeing the cancer patient: pathetic, weak, and in need of constant support, both physical and emotional. Maybe he was still most of those things, but he didn't need John's pity to remind him of that.

Now, holding the trembling bow in his mangled right hand, he needed that pity even less to remind him of his own infirmity. One of the first things a violinist learns is how to properly grip the bow—a feat now literally impossible. There just wasn't enough surface area and strength in three fingers to grasp it with anything resembling proper bow hold. The stub of his ring finger was the perfect length to knock painfully against the bow whenever he moved his hand.

No.

He wouldn't taint his memories of the instrument by producing what was bound to be an ear-piercing shriek. In exasperation, he threw the violin and bow down on the table. He'd rather remember how good he used to be that try futilely to re-achieve that magnificence. He gave it one last glare and stormed off into his bedroom.

He slammed the door violently behind him, barely holding back a scream of rage and despair. He flung himself face-first onto the bed. The bed he'd been spending a despicable amount of time in since he came home. He used to never need sleep, intermittently crashing on the couch whenever he so pleased. Now he slept through the night and needed a nap in the afternoon, sometimes two. It was despicable!

He just couldn't do it anymore.

He couldn't pretend that this all wasn't getting to him. He couldn't pretend he was fine with being less than he was. He couldn't say he was fine with going back for chemo in a few months. He couldn't look at himself in the mirror and see a gaunt skeleton with a head resembling the surface of the moon. He couldn't accept this as his new life, miserable shell of a life that it was. He couldn't keep putting on a brave face for John.

John was quite literally the only thing keeping him remotely sane—and the only thing keeping him alive. He had no doubt he'd have succumbed to the infection if he hadn't had someone worth fighting for. Even if he'd made it through that, he would have called it quits when he realised what the rest of his life would be like. He'd investigated enough crimes to have a commendable repertoire of suicide methods. He'd have put one to use the second he was released from the hospital and all its Hippocratic-oath-bound doctors.

But he had John. At least for now. But he was a broken toy, one John would try to fix, but would throw in the trash upon realising it's beyond repair. Their relationship used to revolve around the excitement of solving crimes, living on the edge; now Sherlock's fragile health would forever be at the forefront of their minds. He'd been shocked at how long John and the others had stayed with him when he first got sick, but everyone had their limits. It was only a matter of time before John got fed up and left to find a healthier friend.

John would eventually leave him. Sherlock was convinced this was inevitable. So he buried his face in his pillow and sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now for the abrupt change of subject into my second favor. You see, I have a dilemma. I have so many writing prompts floating around in my head, but I have no idea which to work on first. So, I'd appreciate it if you could vote for your favorites to help me with my decision. Here is the list of prompts/summaries:
> 
> (1) mystery neurological illness
> 
> (2) Vivian Norbury shot. What if Mary hadn't jumped? (Six Thatchers)
> 
> (3) Instead of saline, the nurse replaced Sherlock's meds with Culverton's memory-impairment drug (Lying Detective)
> 
> (4) post-Reichenbach: Sherlock's funeral as seen from different character's perspectives (I already wrote and edited this one, so it's happening whether you like it or not. I just want an estimate on how many are actually interested in this concept)
> 
> (5) Sherlock and John hail a cab: the Cash Cab. (not sure if Cash Cab is just an American thing, but long story short it's a game show where contestants answer as many question as possible to win money in the time it takes to get to their destination) This would just be a silly, humorous one-chapter story
> 
> (6) Mary finally gathers the courage to ask John why certain things make him so upset. John tells his new girlfriend all about his late best friend. (post-Reichenbach)
> 
> (7) Survival of the Wittiest: John and Sherlock get lost in the wilderness


	37. Still Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for contributing your opinions to my list of prompts. I now have my priorities straight and a rough publishing schedule, which I'll finalize by the end of this story and share with you.

John could hear the sobbing. He wished he couldn't. He really wished he couldn't. He wished he could block it out and forget about it. But he couldn't.

He'd never heard Sherlock cry before. The man handled onions without so much as a watery eye. But he couldn't blame him. He'd done his fair share of crying during the aftermath of his shoulder wound, and what Sherlock had endured was at least a thousand times worse. His instincts told him he should do something to help, to somehow alleviate the pain.

Over the years, John had developed a mental rulebook for dealing with Sherlock. If it were on paper, it would probably be the size of War and Peace. In the past, when Sherlock sulked, human contact would only make it worse, but this was different. Unfortunately, there was no neatly-labelled subsection for a post-leukaemic Sherlock, so he'd have to figure it out as he went.

First, he put the violin and bow gently back into the case. Seeing it would only remind him of the incident that had caused this meltdown. He had several options for the next step. He could wait until the crying subsided, until Sherlock had calmed himself down some. However, he might be more combative and reluctant when he wasn't actively weeping.

He could storm in there right now and demand Sherlock tell him exactly what was bothering him so he could do everything humanly possible—and then some—to fix it. He couldn't be sure that Sherlock would comply, but he was more likely to do so in this state than any other. John remembered that he'd been more open to both physical and emotional contact since he'd gotten sick. They'd had so many heart-to-heart conversations in the hospital, what was one more?

Finally, John decided his best bet was to go inside. If he didn't know already, this would remind Sherlock that John would always be there, not to judge him, but help him through tough times like these. John Watson was no fair-weather friend.

He marched up to the door and slowly reached for the knob. He slowly turned it and eased the door open, trying to make his entrance as quiet as possible. Sherlock was sprawled out across the bed, face buried in a pillow. John's felt his heart constrict with pity and sorrow for the poor man in front of him. He'd never seen the detective cry like this before.

He'd also never managed to sneak up on him; the detective saw and heard everything that went on in the flat. He feared he might startle him if he approached too suddenly, so he made his footsteps strategically louder to make his presence known. The sobs hitched for a moment—Sherlock noticed he was here—but didn't stay silent for long. John knew that a meltdown like this could never stop suddenly.

John walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down on it next to Sherlock. He debated whether physical contact would be appreciated or hated in this situation, and the memory of Sherlock asking him to hold his hand for the nasogastric tube insertion replayed itself in his head. He decided to go for it; worst case scenario, Sherlock didn't accept it and kicked John out.

He gradually edged closer and reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. He felt Sherlock instinctually tense up, but eventually relax into John's touch. He rubbed comforting circles around his back, hating how prominent his vertebrae were, even through the fabric of his shirt. Many would consider the gesture intimate, but frankly, John didn't care. Sherlock was suffering and if this would even somewhat alleviate it, John would do it without second thought.

With every minute, the crying subsided until the two of them were left in silence. John's arm was getting tired, but he wouldn't stop until Sherlock didn't appear to need the comfort. "You're still Sherlock," he stated, deducing what had upset the detective in the first place. "Nothing's ever going to change that. You've told me on many occasions that Transport is stupid and you'd sooner be a brain in a jar."

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, facing away from John and muttered in a voice hoarse from crying, "Maybe I am, but now this jar is broken."

"Unfortunately, you're exactly right. But that doesn't do anything to change what's in the jar. A broken jar of jam still contains jam."

"Are you equating me to pulverized fruit?"

"Sherlock, stop over-evaluating metaphors. You understand my meaning perfectly; you're just being difficult. I noticed you were upset, so I came in here to help you. Are you going to let me?"

"'M not upset," he mumbled.

"I may not have your mind for deduction, but I'm not stupid. Please let me help, it hurts me to see you unhappy and I want to help fix whatever's bothering you."

Sherlock hesitated, probably contemplating how much of his strife he wanted to relay to John. John would gladly bear all of it, but suspected Sherlock didn't want to completely yank the lid off of this Pandora's box.

"John, I'm so much less now," he admitted, almost choking on another sob.

"Less than what?"

"Less than I was before all this shit." Sherlock rarely used profanity, seeing little meaning in stigmatized words, but John couldn't think of a more appropriate word to describe what had happened to him.

"Sherlock, that's literally the dumbest thing I've ever heard. And I live with you. If anything, you're infinitely more than before."

"That's ridiculous."

"No, it's not. And I will tell you why if you stop interrupting me. You have inanely high expectations for yourself. I'll put this in terms you can understand: physics dictate that once dropped, a ball doesn't bounce back to the height it started," John began, thinking of the metaphor he'd used earlier.

"Not helping," Sherlock muttered.

"You didn't let me finish. It won't bounce all the way back, unless more force is applied to it. I'm sorry, but you will not just magically recover without working for it. You've been doing really well with your physical therapy, but unfortunately it's going to take time. Your body's been ravaged by infection and illness, it needs to properly put itself back together. Some pieces of the puzzle might be permanently missing, but this is not the end of the road. You've still got a lot of getting better to do. But most importantly, leukaemia did absolutely nothing to that brilliant brain of yours. I couldn't care less if you can't play the violin anymore, I understand how hard it would be with scarred and missing fingers. We'll find another outlet. As long as you still deduce everyone you meet with absolutely no regard for social etiquette, you'll still be Sherlock. As long as you fill our fridge with the disgusting subjects of your experiments, you'll still be Sherlock. As long as you're inordinately happy when there's a murder, you'll still be Sherlock. As long as the game is on, you'll still be Sherlock."

John panted with tiredness from the long soliloquy. He'd meant every word of it, and he hoped it resonated with Sherlock. He watched him and waited for some sort of reaction, but none came. But what did break the silence was John's phone ringing with Lestrade's ringtone.

A case.

~0~

Lestrade was stuck. This case was utterly unsolvable. He and the team had been working on it for nearly a week now, and they'd made no progress. The man had been found dead in his own flat; he'd apparently collapsed suddenly and for no apparent reason. At first it looked like nothing more than natural causes, except his phone and wallet were conspicuously missing. On top of that, autopsy had revealed no underlying medical condition likely to cause sudden collapse like that. He appeared to have asphyxiated to death, but the cause was unknown. Lestrade had first suspected poisoning, but the autopsy had yielded absolutely nothing. He was a perfectly healthy man, and nobody could come up with a reasonable explanation for his collapse and subsequent death.

To make things even more difficult, the victim—Anthony Rogers—was an only child with no living parents, so they had limited ways to find information about him. Currently, Lestrade sat at his desk running through all the facts in his head again, and achieving nothing. A knock at the door startled him out of his reverie.

"Yes?" he inquired. Donovan opened the door and stepped inside.

"Still no leads on the Rogers death?" she asked.

"Nope. But I'm convinced it was murder. There's no medical reason for him to have just up and died like that."

"You're starting to sound like him, you know."

"Like who?"

"Do you really need me to elaborate? Our resident murder-fanatic," she stated.

"Sherlock? He'd agree with me: there's something fishy going on here."

"Why don't you consult him? Isn't that what he does? Consulting detective?"

"You know why I can't do that right now. John would have my head."

"Is the good doctor keeping him caged up to recuperate? I'm sure he's loving that."

"It's for his own good. You know how he gets on cases, he'd run himself into the ground. Only it would be even more dramatic than usual because of... recent circumstances." Everyone at Scotland Yard was reluctant to discuss Sherlock's illness. While they usually possessed no aversion to gossip, they possessed enough basic decency to give the detective some respect.

"You know how he gets, though. I'll bet he's bored out of his mind. If you let him on this case, it might be the best thing that's happened to him in a long time."

"That may be the case, but John won't let him help so soon out of hospital."

"Lestrade, you need him. At this rate, you'll drive yourself crazy trying to solve a case which is clearly too much for you," Donovan delivered the insult easily. "You can tell him—and John—that he has to take care of himself to be allowed to work on it. If he doesn't, we'll kick him back to Baker Street."

"I guess it's our only option. Unless you came in here to tell me you've solved it?" Lestrade asked hopefully.

"Wishful thinking," she replied, turning around and leaving Lestrade alone with his thoughts. He truly did need Sherlock's help on this case, but would he be up for it? Of course his endurance wouldn't be what it once was, but he would still be of use. Right? Lestrade violently shook his head back and forth to rid himself of such terrible thoughts. Sherlock in peak condition was miles ahead of everybody else, even a compromised Sherlock would have twice the intellect of a typical person. Of course he'd be of use. He'd probably have the whole thing solved before Lestrade could even tell him the name of the victim.

Somewhat reluctantly, he picked up his mobile and dialled John's number.

~0~

Sherlock perked up instantly upon hearing the ringtone. Usually, Lestrade texted Sherlock about cases, but John figured he was using him as a buffer to ensure Sherlock didn't get overexcited. The detective looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to answer it. Somewhat reluctantly, he reached out and picked up the phone.

Lestrade's familiar tone greeted him on the other end: "John."

"Yes?" John replied.

"Listen, I know it's soon, but there's a case, and we could really use his help." John didn't want his end of the conversation to reveal too much to Sherlock—who was listening intently—so he tried to keep his responses as nonspecific as possible.

"Could you tell me a little more than that?" he requested.

"A man asphyxiated to death in his own flat, no medical reason or traces of any poison that could've caused it. Either he lost them both, or his phone and wallet were stolen from the flat. As Sherlock would say, balance of probability. My gut tells me it's murder," the DI explained. John was about to decline, when Lestrade added, "No legwork, just brainwork. I promise." Sherlock could really use some reassurance that his brain still worked like it was supposed to; that he wasn't worthless or broken. It didn't sound too dangerous, with little chance of ending up chasing a serial killer through the crowded streets of London. John decided it was worth minimal risk to let Sherlock work again.

"Okay," John acquiesced. "Scotland Yard?"

"Yes. Whenever you get the chance. I'll be here all night. Thank you." Lestrade hung up, leaving John to reveal the news to Sherlock.

"What was that all about?" Sherlock asked.

"Lestrade's got a case. It doesn't sound like it would rate very high on your interest scale, but you might want to start with something a bit easier to ease your way back into it."

"Details?"

"Asphyxiation with no apparent cause. Do you want to give it a try? Lestrade says we can head over any time we're ready."

"Well, I suppose it beats wasting away in here any longer," he said, planting his feet on the floor next to the bed. He paused a few seconds before standing, probably to avoid a head rush. John remembered days long ago when he would literally leap out of his chair at the promise of a good case. John forced the reminiscence away and picked himself up off the bed to get ready. He grabbed his coat and silently prayed that this would all go well.

He waited at the door and watched as Sherlock gathered his coat and scarf. It wasn't particularly cold, but the detective almost never ventured into the great outdoors without his signature outfit. Sherlock began to approach the door when he paused to stare at the deerstalker, perched lazily on the edge of a chair. John could practically see the inevitable conflict inside his head. Sherlock looked from the hat, to John, and back to the hat, but continued to the door without picking it up.

"You sure?" John asked. He knew what it was like to be stared at—he'd had a severe psychosomatic limp for longer than he liked to remember—and didn't want Sherlock to suffer the same scrutiny from the Yarders.

"Battle scars," Sherlock replied simply, before charging out the door. John followed him somewhat in awe of his perseverance. Within seconds, Sherlock had hailed a cab and stepped inside. John told the driver their destination and stared out the window for the majority of the silent ride, stealing quick glances at Sherlock. The detective had put on Molly's gloves; whether it was to protect himself from the cold or the imminent scrutiny, John wasn't sure.

~0~

Sally Donovan hadn't wanted to bring up the Freak to Lestrade, but they were out of options at this point. She couldn't watch the DI drive himself crazy any longer. But if she was honest with herself, she was afraid. Afraid she wouldn't be able to control her reaction when he arrived. She feared she might say something inappropriate by mistake and incur John Watson's wrath.

Everything she knew about what had occurred at the hospital since her last visit came filtered through Lestrade. He hadn't disclosed much, wanting to protect Sherlock's privacy, but Sally was smart enough to know some real shit had gone down. The Freak was lucky to be alive.

She mentally chastised herself for using that old nickname. Before it was a somewhat mean-spirited tease, but now using the term would just be bullying. Sally Donovan was a lot of things, but she wasn't a bully.

As she stood awaiting John and Sherlock's arrival with Lestrade, she tried to rid herself of all the negative thoughts she had about the detective. If she slipped up, Lestrade would never forgive her. Neither would John, and she would absolutely hate to get on his bad side. As she heard them approaching, she took a deep breath and clenched her left hand into a fist so tight her nails dug painfully into her palm.

It wasn't enough.

She barely managed to conceal a frightened yelp as a hiccup, so she knew her face revealed everything. Unfortunately, the only coherent thought that came to mind was: the Freak now looks the part. He took one look at her reaction and blushed heavily, turning his ghostly pale cheeks deep pink. Sally felt Lestrade's gaze boring into her, and knew she'd royally screwed up.

She thought of all the times she'd wished Sherlock would just go away, stop intruding on their official police investigations. She'd thought so many terrible things about that man, had wanted him to suffer. Well, now he'd suffered immensely, and she couldn't help but believe her imaginings had somehow caused it. She tried to banish the image, but his likeness had burned itself into the inside of her eyelids. Everywhere she looked, eyes open or closed, she saw Sherlock staring back at her flushed with embarrassment for something that wasn't even remotely his fault. God, she was a terrible person.

~0~

Donovan's little scene made John instantly regret allowing Sherlock on this job. It did not bode well for the rest of their visit to Scotland Yard. Before they'd even arrived, word of the detective's return had somehow spread throughout the building, and people John'd never spoken to—some of which he'd never even seen—walked by just to 'catch a glimpse.' Sherlock must've felt like a literal freak show, people stopping by to stare at him. Thank God for Lestrade, who noticed the predicament immediately and ushered them away to his office.

John glanced over at Sherlock, whose cheeks were still hot with humiliation. He should've come alone and simply Skyped Sherlock back at Baker Street. Why did he think this was a good idea?

"I'm sorry about them," Lestrade said sincerely, giving Donovan the stink-eye. "If it's any consolation, they're just afraid they'll lose their jobs now that you're back to solve all the cases for them." John silently thanked the DI for such a well-constructed excuse. However, it did little to calm Sherlock, who was already nervously fidgeting with his missing fingers.

"It's all right, Lestrade. I suppose that is something I must get used to," Sherlock sighed resignedly.

"Anyway, let's focus on what you came here for. The case. Obviously, the scene's already been cleaned up and the body taken care of, so you'll have to work only on the evidence we gathered and saved from the scene. As you already know, tox screen yielded nothing."

"Did you test for rarer poisons? Clever murderers don't use anything that would be detected on a basic screen."

"Yes, several. Still nothing."

"Any suspects?"

"None. The guy was ridiculously unattached: no parents, siblings, children, or close friends we could find."

"Great. No wonder you've gotten nowhere. With so little evidence, I can't promise a solution." Sherlock never started a case with such a pessimistic mindset, but John suspected this warning was as much for him as it was for Lestrade. He was afraid he wouldn't be able to solve it; lack of evidence had nothing to do with it. He'd solved many cold cases on even less.

"We can show you the photos of the scene. I know it's not much, but if anyone can get anywhere with this case, it's you."

Lestrade grabbed a file and plopped it down on the desk. Sherlock took a seat in one of the chairs and opened the folder. John noticed that he still had his gloves on, even though he normally took them off indoors. John glanced up at Sally, who was watching Sherlock intently as he rifled through the photos. Her gaze was focused on his right hand—of course it was. But the look in her eyes was one John had never seen on her before, one he'd never expect her to direct at Sherlock. Pity. Sally Donovan pitied Sherlock Holmes.

"You said he asphyxiated?" Sherlock inquired.

"Yes."

"Was there any sort of rash or hives present on the body?"

"No, I don't think so. If there was, it wasn't noted."

"Did you look at his medical records?"

"Yeah. There was nothing to suggest a cause of sudden asphyxiation like this."

"Interesting." John could tell Sherlock was onto something. He always took on that tone when he had an idea. Not that John had ever doubted he'd still be able to deduce, but he still felt a rush of relief knowing the detective was as keen as ever. "Do we still have access to the flat?"

"The corpse isn't there anymore, Sherlock," Lestrade explained.

"I know that! I'm not an idiot, but I still want to see the flat. There is so much to be learned about our victim by observing his living space."

"Yes, we can still get in the flat."

"Are all of his things still in it?"

"Unless the killer decided to come back and take some more, yes."

"Excellent. Let's go."

Sherlock stood up from the desk and started towards the door. John and Lestrade scrambled after him. Typically, Sherlock adamantly refused to go anywhere in the police car, and this time was no different. He asked Lestrade for the address and promptly hailed a cab; John barely managed to leap in after him before the taxi set off for Rogers' flat.

John wanted to comment on how wonderful it was to be back to their old routine, but Sherlock was clearly not in a mood to talk. He was thinking. John could tell that any attempt at conversation would be scorned and ignored.

When they arrived at the flat, Sherlock sprung from the cab—with noticeably less ease and grace than usual—and left John to pay. Some things never change. John followed him and Lestrade as the DI unlocked the door. They entered the flat, and Sherlock set off for the kitchen like a bloodhound on a scent.

"Oi. If you're that hungry, we could have stopped for something," Lestrade said. "It is still stealing, even if he's dead."

"Shut up," Sherlock remarked, rifling through the cabinets. He opened every single one until he found one filled with food. He sifted through it methodically, searching for something. John wondered if he'd gone crazy. How could there possibly a clue in the man's snack drawer? His eating habits weren't exactly going to tell them how he died, were they?

Despite this, Sherlock continued to go through the cabinets. He glanced at the ingredients on many of the things he pulled out, but John could not discern any sort of pattern to the items he was assessing. Just as Lestrade was about to suggest Sherlock focus his efforts elsewhere, he pulled something out and held it up eagerly.

"Found it!" he exclaimed joyously. "The answer to your murder lies right here!"

"Sherlock, I don't understand," John admitted. "Peanut butter?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "Still Sherlock" speech in this chapter is one of my favorite Johnologues. I realized that I wrote a lot of emotional speeches for John, so I decided to give them a clever name. Johnologue fit perfectly :)


	38. Second Bounce

"Sherlock, I don't understand," John admitted. "Peanut butter?" How could the whole case hinge on a jar of peanut butter?

"Not peanut butter, soy nut butter!" Sherlock exclaimed. He glanced between Lestrade and John, not understanding why they couldn't see how important this was.

"I don't get it," Lestrade said. "What does it matter if he has soy nut butter?"

Sherlock sighed in frustration, but relented to outlining the deduction: "There's only one reason people keep soy nut butter, and that's if they don't eat regular peanut butter, and there's only one reason people don't eat regular peanut butter: they're allergic."

"So he was killed with a peanut," John stated. "He died of anaphylactic shock, that's what made him suffocate."

"Yes!"

"But why would someone do that?" Lestrade questioned.

"That I've yet to figure out. But I do have a hunch. Did it say anywhere in his medical records that he was allergic to peanuts?" Sherlock asked.

"No," Lestrade behind.

"Why wouldn't it? He definitely knew about it, and if it's this severe, he'd almost certainly have been to an allergist at some point in his life. How could it not show up in his records?"

"Maybe they were altered," Lestrade suggested.

"But only a select few would even have access to them."

"Likely just any doctor he saw and himself," John explained. "Do you think a doctor murdered him?"

"Either that, or whoever did it somehow convinced a doctor to change the records."

"He'd have to have serious leverage to do that. Tampering with records is a big deal."

"We need more evidence," Sherlock stated, turning to Lestrade. "We need a motive." He turned again and dove towards the dead man's bedroom, undoubtedly to search for evidence. John considered following him, but Lestrade gestured for him to stay behind.

"Are you sure he's okay to be working?" Lestrade inquired. "It hasn't been all that long."

"I know it seems soon, but he's Sherlock. He couldn't bear to sit still for any longer. His brain's in as perfect order as it's always been."

"Are you sure it won't tire him out too much?"

"I made a deal with him before I let him come in the first place: he has to eat and sleep. I won't let him run himself into the ground like he usually does on cases. But the margin for running into the ground is a lot narrower than it used to be."

"How have things been since he got home? Is everything going alright?"

This question made John think of the meltdown Sherlock had not long before Lestrade called with the case. He considered summarising it to the DI, but decided that was an invasion of the detective's privacy. Sherlock had meant that confession for John's ears only. "The transition has been a little rough," John divulged. "But he's doing really well overall. He was anxious to get back into the work."

"Glad to hear it. I don't know where we'd be without him."

"And he's still very attached to that blanket you got for him."

"Wonderful. Most of the Yarders laughed at me when they heard the suggestion, but I thought it would help cheer him up."

Before they could continue their discussion, Sherlock burst back into the kitchen, panting. He must have searched fervently for whatever it was he'd been looking for; he looked exhausted. He explained breathlessly, "The victim was having an affair with an allergist at the place on Beaumont. The one who's married to another allergist at the same practice."

"How could you—" Lestrade began, only to be cut off.

"You must find Dr. Walpole and arrest him. He's our killer, I'm certain of it."

"How did you get all that from one look at the bloke's bedroom?" Lestrade continued.

"It's not important; we need to find him." Sherlock started for the door as if he planned to track the man down himself, but John stopped him by grabbing onto a still-too-thin arm.

"Sherlock, you are not chasing down a murderer," John insisted.

"Why not?" he whined.

"You know perfectly well why not. Look at you, you're already exhausted from all the wandering we've done today." It was evident that Sherlock was already tired: he'd practically staggered back into the kitchen from the bedroom. This was much more activity for one day than he'd endured in a long time, and John feared he would collapse if they didn't go home soon.

"The boys and I will handle this one, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "You've done the hard part for us. Go home with John." Sherlock looked between the two of the like they were traitors conspiring against him, but eventually dropped his head in defeat and fatigue. John and Sherlock made their way back outside and hailed a cab back to Baker Street. Halfway there, John looked over to Sherlock to congratulate him on a job well done, but he'd fallen asleep, head lolling to the side. John couldn't help but smile. He still had a long way to go, but he was getting better every day. Until he wasn't.

~0~

Sherlock was somewhat embarrassed that he'd fallen asleep on such a short cab trip, but his body had shut itself down almost instantaneously when he sat down. Fortunately, John didn't ridicule him for it, but that probably went along with the whole 'cancer survivor' deal. There were many things John—or anybody else—couldn't in good moral standing make fun of him for anymore. "My laptop's in the other room, yours is closer," was now a valid excuse, where once it was laziness and an invasion of privacy.

John woke him up with a gentle jostle to the shoulder when they arrived at Baker Street, and he managed to stumble inside and up the stairs before collapsing on the couch. He abhorred how tired he was after such minimal exertion. They'd been out of the flat for maybe two hours, and he was totally drained. Tedious. He wanted to stay awake just a little longer to show his Transport who was in charge, but his eyes closed of their own accord. The last thing he registered was John draping the butchery blanket over him.

When he woke, he wasn't certain how much time had passed. He considered getting up, but found he didn't have the energy to so much as lift his head. How could he still be so tired after an extended nap? God, it was hateful. John re-entered the room upon hearing him stir, and asked if the nap had helped ease the exhaustion.

"Honestly, I feel like I could sleep the rest of the night," Sherlock admitted. "When am I due to regain a reasonable level of stamina?"

"There's no set timeline for these things, everyone's different," John explained. "You'll gradually build your energy reserves back up. Do you want to eat something before you go back to sleep?"

"Not particularly, but I'm assuming by your tone that I don't have a choice."

"You'd be correct. If you want your stamina back, food is one of the most important pieces." Sherlock had already been told this by John and other doctors more times than he could count, but John still felt the need to remind Sherlock of it whenever the topic of food came up.

"Fine, I'll eat," Sherlock relented. When John was in doctor mode, there was little he could do to switch it back off. As John disappeared into the kitchen, Sherlock's thoughts wandered to their trip to Scotland Yard. Sally Donovan's reaction haunted him every time he closed his eyes. Is this how everyone would see him now? A Freak, both socially and now physically? As skilled as he was at tuning out the public, he certainly wouldn't enjoy being stared at all the time.

To make matters worse, he'd been able to hear bits of Lestrade and John's conversation at the victim's flat. Everyone thought it was too soon for him to be back to work, and maybe they were right. If working made him this exhausted every time, maybe he really wasn't cut out for it anymore. But if he ever tried to imagine a life without casework, he remembered endless boredom and resorting to drugs to end the monotony. No, giving up the work simply wasn't an option. He'd just have to push through it, even if it killed him.

John returned with a plate and a glass of water, which he set down on the table. He looked at Sherlock expectantly, so he sat up and reluctantly began to pick at it. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to call it quits and go back to sleep, but John was non-subtly watching his every move from behind his newspaper, and he knew he'd get an earful if he didn't finish the meagre portion. He topped it off with a few sips of water, and rolled back over on the sofa. He pulled the butchery blanket tighter around himself—he was so cold all the time now—and drifted off to sleep.

~0~

Two days later, Lestrade called to report that Dr. Walpole had confessed to killing Anthony Rogers; Sherlock had been right about everything. Sherlock wanted to celebrate, but the fatigue from the day of solving the case had returned with a vengeance. And with it he'd developed a cough that refused to subside. John of course noticed this from the first cough, but Sherlock told him he thought he'd inadequately swallowed something. Any excuse would do; he just didn't want to admit that he might be sick.

John bought it, but Sherlock continued to cough the rest of the day and into the next morning. Sherlock desperately tried to hide it. He knew it probably wasn't wise, but he didn't want to admit to John, or to himself, that something was wrong. As much as possible, he avoided remaining in the same room as the doctor. He nabbed the butchery blanket and hid away in his room, claiming to be taking a long nap.

Instead, he doubly wrapped himself in all the blankets on top of his bed to quell the chills that had begun in the last hour or so. They were so bad, his teeth were practically chattering. He didn't want to believe that this could be happening. He felt the same sense of helplessness that the onset of the leukaemia had brought about. His body was failing him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt like he was falling down a pit, grasping at ledges and handholds that wouldn't hold his weight.

Was this the cancer returning? He felt a different kind of miserable than he had before his diagnosis, but equally miserable nonetheless. His cough gradually worsened until he was awarded barely a minute of respite between violent fits. He was bringing up so much mucus that he'd probably lost a pound in the last twelve hours. Sherlock knew he was being irrational hiding this from John, but he was scared. John's assessment would only prove his worst fears: he was really sick and needed help. He'd accepted enough help from the medical profession to last him three lifetimes. He didn't want to deal with any more doctors or medications or diagnoses. If he was honest with himself, he didn't think he could deal with any more without lashing out.

He wasn't sure how long he managed to prevent John from being wise to his symptoms, but he was beginning to regret his decision to hide it. Instead of getting better, everything was getting worse. He was somehow colder and hotter all at the same time, and he could barely breathe with the frequency and magnitude of his coughing. If this was how he was to die, at least he'd gotten in one more case with John before it was all over.

But he didn't want this to be the end. Something was seriously wrong with him, and he needed to get help. He needed to get John. He tried to untangle himself from the blankets, but he was so exhausted and woozy that his limbs wouldn't properly obey his commands. He was wheezing deeply and still couldn't draw in enough oxygen. His vision started to tunnel and he felt like he was about to pass out, when he heard his bedroom door swing open.

~0~

John expected Sherlock to be excited that the case had been closed, the perpetrator in custody. But he seemed somehow... muted. John heard him cough the first few times, and his mind immediately jumped to the worst case scenario. But Sherlock insisted it was nothing more than a bit of food lodged in his throat, and John stupidly believed him. The detective had run off to his room and hadn't even peeked out in hours.

John could hear coughing occasionally, but it was quieted by the walls that separated them. His doctor senses were tingling, but he naively believed that Sherlock now trusted him enough to come to him when something was wrong. He wanted Sherlock to come to him, wanted to know that his best friend trusted him and relied on him. John wanted to be needed.

Maybe this was why he waited so long before taking matters into his own hands. Or maybe it was that he didn't want to believe that Sherlock could actually be sick so soon after leaving the hospital. He kept coming up with weak excuses for the continued coughing. Maybe it really was just a stubborn bit of food lodged in the pharynx.

John didn't want it to be what he suspected. If that were true, then Sherlock was in trouble. John regretted letting him out of the house to go on that stupid case. He probably caught a simple cold or something at Scotland Yard, but his immune system couldn't fight it off adequately. What would be a two-day cold for a healthy person could spell disaster for someone in such a fragile state.

John made up his mind and marched over to Sherlock's bedroom door. He took a deep breath and opened the door. He found Sherlock wrapped in what appeared to be every single blanket they possessed in the flat. God, he looked awful. His cheeks were flushed with fever, and he was shaking with chills, eyes glassy and unfocused. His lips had a blue, cyanotic tinge, and John knew immediately things were not good. Not good at all. John quickly grabbed his thermometer and returned to Sherlock's room. He watched with bated breath as the numbers climbed. Jesus, 40 degrees! Much higher and he'd fry his brain.

How could he have been so stupid? He'd heard the coughing ages ago, he should have done something. He was a doctor, for God's sake, and it took him this long to take action when he knew he was sick. He'd never forgive himself.

"J-n," Sherlock mumbled hoarsely. "Sick. Need... help."

"I know, Sherlock. I should have come in here to check on you sooner."

"Tried to get..." his sentence was cut off by another bout of coughing that sent shivers up John's spine. He was going to cough up an entire lung at this rate. "You."

"I've been an idiot, I should've come get you sooner. Sherlock, this is bad. We need to get you to the hospital."

"NO," Sherlock insisted. "Not going back there."

"Sherlock, you're still immunocompromised and now sick; without help, you'll just get worse and worse. I don't care what you say, you're going to the hospital if I have to drag you." Sherlock's only response was another coughing fit, even more violent than the last, if that was even possible. John cursed under his breath and pulled out his phone to call an ambulance. Sherlock was in a bad way, and they needed to get him help soon before he passed out from hypoxia.

"Who're you... calling?" Sherlock wheezed. Instead of answering his friend, John had a brief conversation with the woman on the phone and left Sherlock to his deductions. They had approximately 8 to 10 minutes before help would arrive at Baker Street. Sherlock coughed violently again, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head with the force of it. John helped Sherlock to a sitting position on the edge of the bed and pulled out the stethoscope he always kept in the flat. Despite Sherlock's weak protests, he listened to his lungs and cringed at what he heard. Sherlock's chest sounded like an angry cougar growling. John could also feel the heat radiating off the detective's feverish body. He hated himself for not investigating sooner; he'd let this illness progress alarmingly far. Maybe he'd just been in denial that Sherlock could've gone from relatively okay to desperately ill so quickly, and so soon after he'd freed himself of the hospital.

The paramedics arrived, supplemental oxygen in tow, and whisked Sherlock away on a stretcher. John quickly followed behind, informing them of the situation, and they listened to his every word. By the time they'd reached the waiting ambulance, Sherlock was on the brink of passing out, his lips a disturbing blue. The sirens echoed the panic John was experiencing in that moment. He knew the morbidity and mortality rates associated with cancer patients and these kinds of illnesses, and as much as he tried not to think about them, his brain couldn't resist torturing him with images of a dead Sherlock.

Once the ambulance arrived at the hospital, everything flew by in a blur, and before John knew it, Sherlock had been admitted. They'd done a blood test, sputum culture, chest x-ray, and even bronchoscopy, all confirming what John had feared: pneumonia. He found himself in the all-too-familiar situation of sitting beside his friend's sickbed. As much as it pained him to be back here, it must have been ten times worse for Sherlock. He'd just managed to free himself of this antiseptic-scented prison, only to land right back inside.

Currently, Sherlock appeared to be floating somewhere between sleep and consciousness, his eyes closing intermittently before fluttering open again. His oxygen saturation had been despairingly low upon arrival, and the mask they'd given him fogged and defogged with his laboured breathing. The doctors had the oxygen flow on as high as John had ever seen it. Even half asleep, Sherlock was coughing up a storm, and John winced at the horrid sound of it. It must've hurt.

He lost track of how long he sat there staring at Sherlock. But the entrance of a familiar figure drew his attention. Dr. Janssen. The expression on his face could only be described as disappointment. He was disappointed that Sherlock was back so soon, disappointed that all their efforts to make him healthy again had failed.

"I would say it's good to see you again, but the circumstances make that a false statement," Dr. Janssen greeted.

"Agreed," John replied.

"What happened?"

"We went to Scotland Yard for a case, and I presume he picked something up there. About two days after that, he started coughing and was running a 40-degree fever."

"I'm so sorry. Hopefully, antibiotics will get this all sorted and you'll be back home soon."

"I hope so too," John replied forlornly. Dr. Janssen turned and left the room; John found himself once again alone with Sherlock. He was more awake now, but that just meant the coughing was more frequent and more powerful. He was forced to periodically remove the oxygen mask to spit thick mucus into a small basin. John's chest ached with sympathy.

"Sherlock, you holding up okay?" John asked, knowing the answer would probably be no. Instead, Sherlock nodded faintly yes and reached out to request John's hand. He complied with this request and enlaced his five fingers with Sherlock's three, hoping his grip provided some semblance of comfort.

They sat like that for a long time, interrupted only when Sherlock leaned forward to cough some more. John stared up at the bag of antibiotics as if intimidation would make the meds more effective.

"John," Sherlock muttered, his voice obscured by the oxygen mask.

"Yes?"

"Want to go home."

"I know, but we can't go home just yet. We can go home when you're better."

"Don't want to wait. Can't stay here," Sherlock insisted, pulling off the mask and sitting up at the same time. John coaxed him back down and replaced the mask. He must have been feeling really sick to be so compliant.

"Shhhh," John soothed. "I know you don't like it, but we have to stay here just a bit longer until you're healthy enough to go home. If you leave now, things will just get worse. Now that you're getting help, you should start to feel better soon. Try and get some sleep."

Surprisingly, Sherlock listened and ceased all attempts at escape. Or maybe he was simply too exhausted. Either way, John was content. As Sherlock drifted off to sleep, John texted everyone he thought ought to know what had transpired, omitting Mycroft, since he undoubtedly already knew. He told them Sherlock was in hospital with pneumonia, but there was little cause for concern. They had it under control. Maybe that was understating things just a little bit, but Sherlock's friends worrying certainly wouldn't help him recover.

John looked at Sherlock lying so helplessly and couldn't help but be overcome by pity. The detective had endured unimaginable physical and emotional suffering, only to be given a short taste of freedom before being mercilessly thrown right back into the role of ailing patient. If their roles were reversed, John would have fallen to pieces ages ago. He marvelled at Sherlock's strength and diligence to keep fighting despite the odds being stacked against him.

When Sherlock told John that he'd fought his way out of a coma just for him, John's heart had melted like butter left in the sun. A man who insisted sentiment was horrible and useless literally came back from the dead to return to his friend. That was quite a statement, and John was infinitely grateful to be the subject of such fraternal loyalty. He hoped he exuded even half of the dedication to Sherlock that the other man showed him.

~0~

A day passed with minimal improvement, but the arrival of Sherlock's second day in hospital heralded a noticeable decrease in coughing. The blue tinge had all but disappeared, and another x-ray showed that the pneumonia was indeed beginning to clear up.

"Does this mean I can go home now?" Sherlock asked, his words muffled by the oxygen mask. The supplement was still necessary to keep his sats at a satisfactory level.

"Not quite," Dr. Janssen explained. "But this is definitely a step in the right direction. Get some rest, and you'll be home before you know it."

"Not soon enough," he grumbled, crossing his arms grumpily. Even ill, he could still manage quite an attitude. John wasn't sure if he was glad of this or not. Dr. Janssen left, and the two men found themselves in oppressive silence. John didn't really know what to say. He was afraid he'd somehow upset Sherlock, something he always wanted to avoid at all costs, but was even more important now, given the circumstances.

Sherlock stopped him from attempting small talk by stating, "John, you can go home if you wish. I don't imagine I'm very pleasant company at the moment." This statement was emphasised by a long, raucous coughing fit. John winced; it still sounded like he was tearing his throat apart. Sherlock had told John this on countless occasions during the first hospital stay, but John knew the pattern.

Sherlock didn't think anyone he knew would stick around unless he was doing work or something exciting. He didn't understand the sentimental attachment people had to their friends. Hopefully, he had a better grasp of it now after the leukaemia failed to drive them away. John wasn't leaving. Not tonight, not ever.

"Thank you for the offer, but I'd rather stay here. That is, if that's alright with you," John said, making sure to give Sherlock control. One of Sherlock's biggest issues with hospitals was not being in control of what happened to and around him, so John tried to remedy that by leaving the decision up to him.

"Stay," was Sherlock's one-word answer. That was good enough for John. Within half an hour, both men were sound asleep: John in the chair and Sherlock in his bed. They remained like that throughout the night, barely shifting. John did notice when a nurse switched the empty bottle of antibiotics for a new one, but other than that he slept peacefully without disturbance. It was certainly the best rest he'd ever gotten in a hospital, maybe one of the best ever.

~0~

The next morning, John discovered Sherlock had awoken before him. When John finally pried his own eyes open, it was to find Sherlock staring back at him intently. Those two blue-green eyes always seemed to convey so much thought; John's analysis only ever scratched the surface. Sherlock once told him that his mind was an engine racing out of control: an entirely accurate description. If John tried to process a fourth of what the detective seemed to constantly juggle, his head would probably explode. But right now, those icy blue eyes were pleading.

"What's wrong?" John asked as soon as he was awake enough to form a coherent sentence. He could tell Sherlock was considering passing it off as nothing, but surprisingly decided against it.

"Is this the new normal?" John nearly choked. He remembered struggling to accept that things would never be the same, and Sherlock had told him that a new normal was all they had left to hope for. Maybe this was it: spending the years in and out of hospital as endless reams of bacteria and viruses penetrated Sherlock's meagre defences. That was no life Sherlock would want to live. But the alternative was isolating him from all potential sources of infection, rarely venturing into the public, restricting guests allowed into the flat. John wasn't sure which alternative Sherlock would prefer.

Apparently, John was taking too long to answer Sherlock question, because he further urged him: "Is it?"

"I don't know," John admitted honestly. "Sherlock, I don't know. I'm sorry."

"You're hiding something," Sherlock pointed out, collapsing into more coughing. Of course, the detective always saw right through John.

"It's possible. Your immune system may never rebuild itself fully, especially while you're still doing maintenance chemo, and you'll be especially prone to illness."

"What can we do?" Sherlock had never encountered a problem he couldn't solve. This was just another conundrum he expected to wheedle his way out of.

"Sherlock, the only way to avoid getting sick is to avoid microbes that cause sickness. Avoiding crowded public places, children, and anyone who's been ill recently."

"Doesn't sound like such a hardship. People are annoying."

"Sherlock, you probably caught this just by going to Scotland Yard. If you continue to be this susceptible, you may have to avoid there as well."

"John, I don't like this new normal." John had never heard Sherlock sound so broken, even during his worst moments at the mercy of leukaemia. In a way, this was worse. In the midst of his illness, at least there'd been a promise of a new horizon, an end to the torture. Now it was finally sinking in that it might never end.

"I know you don't. It's not ideal, but we'll manage." John had meant to say that Sherlock would manage, but somehow 'we'll manage' slipped out instead. It felt right.

"John, you know I don't believe in karma, or fate, or any of the philosophical nonsense, right?"

"Yes, you've made it abundantly clear," John remarked, wondering where Sherlock was going with this.

"Ever since this began, I've been plagued by one thought: why me? Of the billions of people in the world, I was struck down by a biological malfunction. John, nobody in my family for as many generations as I can trace had cancer of any type, yet leukaemia still found me. Why?"

John didn't want to admit that the first thought to cross his mind was that it was recompense for how terribly he treated most other people, but that would fall under the category of karma, and Sherlock wouldn't hear any of that. Instead, he answered, "Things like this are random. Somebody has to be the .01%, and there's often nothing more than chance governing who ends up with the short end of the stick. Your whole life, you've gotten to enjoy the perks of being the .0001% who's as fucking smart as you are. Maybe it's only fair if you're also the minority that has to suffer from something like this. Maybe it's meant to teach you some humility."

John knew that last bit sounded an awful lot like the 'balance of the universe' stuff Sherlock abhorred, but he could think of no other explanation that could possibly console either Sherlock or himself. He, as well, had often wondered why something so terrible had to happen to Sherlock. He wasn't a saint, but nobody was, and Sherlock was an awful lot better than most people John had met in his lifetime. Sherlock coughed before replying sarcastically to John's statement:

"Am I noticeably more humble now?"

"Actually, yes. The lack of arrogant curl-tousling has made you much more approachable. Not to mention the heart."

"Very funny. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you actually prefer this to my old visage, just because it makes you look better by comparison."

"Not true. I resent your accusation."

"It's a little bit true. You're the attractive one now, and you like it."

"Sherlock, it's not like we're competing. Any woman who's ever said a word to you has been scared off by your personality. And you certainly have no interest in them."

"I'm married to my work."

"You certainly yell about it as if you are," John replied amicably. The emotional burden of the conversation had taken its toll on him, and anything that could lighten the mood was most welcome. If he could still bicker humorously with Sherlock, things didn't seem so bad.


	39. Moving Forward

After five days in the hospital, Sherlock was deemed healthy enough to go home. According to him, he should have been allowed to leave two days ago, but John had adamantly refused to let him sign himself out AMA. He still had a nasty cough, but it sounded less like he was trying to expel his insides. They were given a prescription for oral antibiotics, and sent on their merry way. Both men were immensely relieved to once again be free of the hospital.

When they arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock immediately curled up on the couch with his butchery blanket. He refused John's suggestion of watching crap telly, claiming he couldn't afford to lose any more brain cells. John worried that he would be bored, but the detective fell asleep within minutes—the move home had exhausted him.

While Sherlock slept, John tried to come up with a solution to the inevitable dilemma. Sherlock needed to do cases; that was his living, his passion, but John didn't think it was worth it if he contracted some virus or bug every time he spent time in public. He hoped Sherlock felt the same. His health was more important. But if a case arose, and Sherlock wanted to go, how could John tell him no?

The first idea that came to mind was to always use the laptop and Skype like they had for the hiker with the boomerang, but not all cases would be so cut and dry. Well, it had been simple for Sherlock, not for anybody else. Some deductions required more senses than sight alone: sound, touch, smell, occasionally even taste.

Another option would be to force him to wear a surgical mask wherever he went to minimize exposure to airborne pathogens, but that wouldn't be 100% effective. And Sherlock would hate it. His happiness was just as important as his safety in this situation. A decent resolution to the problem eluded John, so he decided he would put it off until they were more certain of his susceptibility. They'd only gone on one case, and he happened to get sick. One data point was not enough to conclude that he'd get sick on every foray into the outside world. Besides, that was no way to live life.

~0~

Over the next two months, Sherlock gradually got stronger and stronger. He slept only eight to ten hours on a typical day, miraculously high compared to his pre-cancer habit of staying awake for 72 hours straight, but much more reasonable than the 16 he would get in the immediate aftermath of the disease. And when he was awake, he complained of being bored. John would take a bored Sherlock over a sick one any day.

He'd even helped Lestrade on two more cases, neither of which resulted in illness of any sort. His immune system was stronger than they'd initially estimated, much to their joy. On the first case after the bout of pneumonia, John had almost forbidden Sherlock from answering Lestrade's summons. But the detective had looked at him with such pleading that to say no would have felt like a terrible sin. He'd held his breath every time someone cleared their throat, or Sherlock touched something from the crime scene. John felt like he could see the bacteria crawling around on every surface, but he forced down the paranoia. Fortunately, it was unfounded. Both cases were rather boring on Sherlock's typical scale, but nowadays he was anxious to prove he could still do the work like he used to.

It reached a point when leukaemia was so far in the past they could almost forget about it. If John could look past the scars and the missing fingers, he could see Sherlock exactly as he used to be: an arrogant arsehole with a heart of gold and a brain of some undiscovered and difficult-to-pronounce element. One day, John had asked Sherlock jokingly what he would name a new element if he discovered one and was given the rights to do so.

"Well, since holmium has already been discovered—twice, actually—I'm not sure. There's yet to be a J on the periodic table, so maybe I'd use your name," he'd replied nonchalantly, while experimenting with god-knows-what at their kitchen table. John was embarrassingly honoured by this suggestion.

The violin was yet to be touched, tucked away in its case in a closet nobody ever opened. John could understand Sherlock's reasoning for giving it up, but he still missed the sound of sweet melodies filling the flat, even sometimes at ungodly hours of the morning. John didn't bring it up for fear it would upset Sherlock.

But John forced himself to remember that Sherlock's ordeal wasn't completely behind them. They still had up to two years of maintenance chemo to worry about. He didn't mention the appointment to Sherlock until it was only two days away. John felt like the reminder would crush his newly-rediscovered spirit. He mustered his courage and broached the uncomfortable subject:

"Sherlock, I just wanted to remind you that you have your first dose of maintenance chemo on Tuesday."

At first, he didn't react at all, and John wondered if Sherlock had even heard what he'd said, but the expression on his face revealed that he had been listening. "Must I?" was his simple request. As much as John wanted to say no, that he could enjoy remission without worrying about medicines or hospitals, he knew he couldn't. This would greatly decrease his odds of recurrence, and John wouldn't let him jeopardise his future just for a bit more comfort in the present.

"Yes, I'm sorry, but you do have to go."

"I don't have do if I don't want to. Power of attorney is useless if I'm conscious and sane."

"Maybe it is, but I'm not trying to use power of attorney to make you go. I'm trying to use the power of reason. Sherlock, this treatment is for your own good. If you don't do it, you're far more likely to relapse, and then you might have to endure all the phases of treatment again. That certainly sounds worse than a low dose of chemo every four months for a year or so, doesn't it?"

"Fine. Just don't expect me to be amicable," he grunted.

Neither of them mentioned the appointment until the morning of, when they actually had to leave to go to the hospital. The cab ride there passed in uncomfortable silence. At least this was a less dire circumstance than the last time they'd been to the hospital. This time, they knew they'd be returning home later that day.

Stepping through the front door of the hospital was not enjoyable; it felt like entering the gates of hell. For a place of healing, a whole lot of misery was endured within its walls. They made their way to the sickeningly familiar oncology ward, and John signed Sherlock in. They were sent to a waiting room specifically for outpatient chemotherapy.

Glancing around, it was ridiculously easy to tell who was there for treatment and who was just family. Most of the cancer patients looked sick, all skin and bones with disturbingly pale complexions. Many were obviously bald, but some may have been wearing wigs. John turned his head to look at Sherlock, finding all the characteristics he'd just observed in the others. He'd gotten so used to Sherlock that he hadn't stopped to consider how much he still looked the part of a cancer patient.

Sherlock himself was typing away frantically on his phone, determined not to look around and accept that he was really here. John suspected it would be incredibly painful to have been recovering so nicely, only to be reminded that this disease still haunted you. Sherlock was doing better than he expected, meaning he wasn't whining like a child. When his name was called, Sherlock stood up with what John recognised as his battle stance.

He wondered if Sherlock wanted him to tag along, or if he wanted to be alone. The detective's hand grabbing his wrist and yanking him out of his seat answered the question for him. Silently, he followed behind as Sherlock was taken through the pre-administration procedures. They took a blood sample, recorded his blood pressure, and weighed him to help calculate the dosage. John surreptitiously glanced at the numbers on the scale. He felt extremely guilty, knowing how sensitive Sherlock was about his weight, but his curiosity got the better of him. Even though he was a full 15 centimetres taller than John, he still weighed significantly less. Although, he'd gained a few kilos since leaving the hospital, but not enough for John's liking.

Soon, Sherlock was seated in a chair beneath an ominous-looking IV pole. While they waited, Sherlock repeatedly glanced up at it like it was a mysterious stranger staring over his shoulder. When a nurse came to insert the IV, Sherlock—who, as a former drug addict, was stoic around needles—clenched his eyes shut and turned his head the other way. It took some prodding to find an acceptable vein, and John watched helplessly as his friend struggled to cope. He couldn't imagine how hard it must be for him to be back in the 'hot seat.'

To make matters worse, a return to the world of cancer treatment meant a return to the care of none other than Dr. Harrison. She waltzed in carrying the bags of toxic concoction like they were cocktails at a dinner party.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you're looking much better than the last time I saw you. How have you been?" she asked, her tone annoyingly cheerful. Sherlock looked up at her, and John swore he heard the detective growl. Knowing Sherlock wouldn't deign to answer such a question, John interjected:

"Things have been going pretty well. He's anxious to get this done and over with."

"We'll have you back home as soon as we can," she promised, hanging the bags on the pole above Sherlock's head. She set the drip and John watched, mesmerised, as the concoction slowly drained out of the bag and down the tube into Sherlock's bloodstream. Dr. Harrison explained, "It'll probably take two to three hours for all of it to enter your system. If at any time you're uncomfortable or need something, just let someone know and we'll get you the help you need."

John heard Sherlock mumble something (probably a rude something) under his breath. John thanked Dr. Harrison and was glad to see the back of her when she turned around to leave. He turned back to Sherlock to find him involved in an intense staring contest with the bag of medication. Of course, he knew intimately well how this medicine made him feel, and was undoubtedly dreading the next few hours.

A quick glance around the room revealed that all the other patients were used to this routine. Most of them sat reading, crocheting, or chatting casually as if they were in a coffee shop, seemingly not a care in the world. Looking back at Sherlock, John didn't think he'd so much as blinked in the past three minutes. He looked like he had a personal vendetta against the little clear bag of liquid. In a way, he did. The contents of those bags had caused him nothing but misery.

"Sherlock," John attempted to draw his attention away from the drugs flowing into his body. It wasn't good for him to dwell on it so obsessively. When he didn't react at all, John repeated, "Sherlock." Finally, he tore his gaze away from the bag and looked John in the eye. John somewhat wished he hadn't, because the expression on his face was that of a man devoid of hope. He'd come so far, only to end up right back where this mess started: being force-fed poison. Of course, it was different medicine and this was a different stage of treatment, but the administration, and therefore the overall feeling, was identical.

Even if it wasn't true, John knew Sherlock felt like he was right back at the beginning, and that was a time nobody wanted to return to. Ever. John sat down on a stool across from Sherlock and tried to keep his focus away from the IV drip. He intermittently looked up to glare daggers at it, no matter how hard John tried to keep him occupied with other things. He'd brought a deck of cards, but he should have known Sherlock wouldn't bother with a silly game. He also found out that the detective had 'deleted' all the rules to basic card games.

"No, go fish does not involve literal rods, hooks, or boats," John reminded him. He gave up on card games, and tried to interest Sherlock in one of the books he'd brought from Baker Street. Since they were books he kept in his own home, John thought Sherlock would've at least considered it, but he didn't.

The only thing he actually did when John asked him was play deductions with the other patients around the room. John had to remind Sherlock to keep his voice down, since the people whose secrets he was revealing were sitting very near him in a rather quiet room. John was surprised with the diversity in the cancer patients. There was a married man with three sons, who each played on a separate football team. The man was a teacher, but Sherlock couldn't tell the particular grade level.

There was an old woman with arthritis and ovarian cancer, talking to her younger sister. She didn't approve of her little sister's new boyfriend because of his dreadful smoking habit. The old woman's husband had passed away at least five years ago, leaving her a significant amount of life insurance money, which she spent on gaudy jewellery and faux fur coats.

John watched Sherlock's facial expression change from dejected to calculating as he worked his brain on the innocents in the room around him. John was glad for the respite from focussing intensely on the chemo, even if it came at the expense of others' privacy. Sherlock told John practically the entire life story of every new patient who walked into the room and sat down.

Sherlock watched the last few drops inch their way down, then practically jumped out of his seat with excitement. Now that this dose was over, he was home-free for a few months. Sherlock agitatedly tapped the fingers of his free hand on his thigh while he waited for the nurse to remove the IV. When it was finished, he all but sprinted out the door. John decided to just get the prescriptions for side-effect medications without him; he didn't want Sherlock to remain here any longer than he absolutely needed to.

Now, getting him to actually take the pills would be another story. They were supposed to decrease the adverse side effects, but Sherlock would probably still refuse just for the sake of being difficult. In John's book that was acceptable: a difficult Sherlock was preferable to a morose Sherlock, a sick Sherlock, or a dead Sherlock. John shivered at the thought of that last one.

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock barely lasted fifteen minutes before excusing himself to the bathroom to throw up. As John had expected, he'd adamantly refused to even touch the medications, even though they promised to alleviate some of the discomfort. Apparently, he'd rather puke his guts out than accept more help from the medical establishment.

John remembered the first days on chemo in the hospital, when John was there to rub comforting circles on his back while he heaved. He didn't dare barge in to attempt the same now; the circumstances were different, and that kind of intimacy wouldn't be tolerated. Fortunately, the sounds soon ceased and Sherlock returned, looking slightly green, but overall okay. It had been shorter and less violent than the bouts of vomiting he'd had with the first phase of chemo, probably due to the reduced dose.

"Are you alright?" John couldn't help but ask. Sherlock just nodded weakly and curled up on the couch with his butchery blanket. He lay there for an hour, intermittently moaning with discomfort, before he got up again and hurried to the bathroom. John had known this was an inevitable result of a dose of chemo, but it still made him cringe. Medicine was supposed to make people feel better, not worse, and it was hard for him to allow doctors to treat Sherlock like this when the benefits were invisible.

Sherlock returned to the couch, tossing and turning for another hour before falling into an uneasy sleep. John heard him mumbling—mostly nonsense, but occasionally a comprehendible word would escape his lips. "No" and "John" were the most frequent mutterings, followed closely by "Idiot" and "Murder." On second thought, if Sherlock was dreaming of murder, his rest was likely full of peace and contentment. John sighed; only with Sherlock were mumblings of murder a good sign.


	40. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The support this story has received has been greater than I could have ever hoped for. Your enthusiasm in turn made me exponentially more excited to post, and I've read so many wonderful comments. Knowing that I provided entertainment to so many of you is truly wonderful. I originally didn't expect that I'd take this project further than finding a resolution to gemstone1234's masterpiece, but my love of this universe I've created is too great to leave it here. There will be at least 3 stories to go along with this that I will post as they get written. Of course, I'm always open to prompt suggestions, whether they're related to Fragile or not. Thank you all so much! Enjoy the denouement!

As the months turned to a year, and then two years, Sherlock and John settled into their new normal. Many more cases were solved, and Sherlock's forays into the outside world resulted in serious illness very rarely: only two brief hospitalisations and the occasional 24-hour bug that for Sherlock lasted closer to 120 hours, but wasn't severe enough to endanger his life.

While their lives certainly didn't return to exactly the way they were before the ordeal, things reached a satisfactory balance. Casework was fundamentally the same, but the execution had to be altered. No longer would a case cause Sherlock to work for days on end without food or sleep, a habit John was glad to see hadn't resurfaced as he regained strength. Sherlock would listen (somewhat begrudgingly) to the biological needs of his Transport, and would eat a decent dinner before sleeping through the night. This allowed him to attack a case with renewed vigour the next morning, and prevented the post-case crash he'd often experienced in the old days.

Another aspect of life that had found a new equilibrium was Sherlock's relationship with Anderson and Donovan. Since cases required visits to Scotland Yard, encounters with the two of them were inevitable. They'd certainly never been friends—even colleagues was a stretch—but John remembered the genuine concern they'd displayed when Sherlock had fallen ill. Even if they hadn't succeeded, they'd tried their best to be supportive.

Nowadays, Sherlock, Anderson, and Donovan had returned to their ritual of firing insults at each other whenever the opportunity arose. However, John noticed that Sally had retired 'Freak' as her usual address when speaking to Sherlock, and John knew that Sherlock had noticed this adjustment. Whether he preferred it this way or not was another story, one which he'd probably never unravel. Lestrade, too, had noticeably changed his demeanour around Sherlock. It used to be strictly professional, with barely a word passing between them that wasn't case-related. Previously, John would have referred to him as a co-worker, but now he was most certainly their friend, one of their best friends. Sherlock now actually used his first name—the correct one.

They also returned to frequenting the morgue, whether it was for a case or for Sherlock to beg Molly for specimens. She didn't mind at all, sometimes even bending the rules to get Sherlock what he wanted, although John suspected she'd done this even beforehand. Maybe the close call made her even more lenient; it had served as a reminder of how short and uncertain life really is.

John knew he himself had adopted a different outlook on life since it all happened. One doesn't realise how much someone means to them until that person is almost ripped away. John began to see the importance in little things. He savoured the feeling of walking into the living room to find Sherlock standing on the couch staring at a collage of pictures and documents tacked to the wall. Sometimes he found himself staring just a little bit too long when Sherlock sat in his chair with his knees tucked up to his chest, fingers steepled in his thinking position. For so long, he had feared that chair would never be occupied by the great detective again.

Another notable change: John found himself complaining a lot less. Not just about Sherlock-related things, but about the general inconveniences of life. Inordinately long line at the grocer's? Waiting to check out was a lot less stressful than waiting for test results. A frustrating day working at the surgery? At least he got to go home to find his best friend healthy and very much alive. Little things like that just didn't matter anymore—he still had Sherlock. Things could have turned out quite differently.

His tolerance for Sherlock's more... quirky traits had also grown exponentially. Once, John would have been angry if Sherlock decided to use John's laptop instead of his own simply because it was closer. Now, he always gave him the benefit of the doubt: maybe he actually was tired enough to warrant frugally rationing energy like that. Specimens in the fridge were no longer a problem. John had seen Sherlock's own head reduced to mincemeat while it was still attached to his body; a couple kidneys or eyeballs didn't bother him in the least. Mrs. Hudson was still a little unnerved by them, and rightfully so, but she kept her mouth shut unless there were more body parts than actual food. There had to be a balance, she claimed.

Mrs. Hudson had always been kind and hospitable to everybody, especially Sherlock. She could deal with his eccentricities as well as his own mother could. Now, she was even friendlier, popping into their flat far more often to ask if they needed anything. She was much more willing to do tasks she'd normally scoff at, claiming she's "not your housekeeper." She was so much more than that, but she did make a fantastic cup of tea. She'd made a habit of making it for them every afternoon, and Sherlock and John always drank it. Even if they were in the middle of a breakthrough with a case, they always made time for Mrs. Hudson.

Before, Sherlock never would have taken a break from his work for something as ordinary as tea. John suspected he, too, realised he needed to reconsider his priorities. Somehow, he managed to refrain from over-deducing and making a client uneasy. He used to be so blunt, but it was as if he'd discovered the line people weren't willing to cross. He now understood that certain topics made people uncomfortable, now that he had some taboos of his own.

It had been a process for John, learning which subjects would automatically shut Sherlock down. For John, it was cathartic to occasionally sit down and discuss some of the things that had happened. He had still unanswered questions about Sherlock's perspective of the whole situation, but he soon found out that inquiries about that period would not be answered, and would in fact cause immediate silence and moping.

He could accept that Sherlock didn't want to talk about it. Everyone had their own coping mechanisms, and Sherlock's just happened to be to store things away in a distant mind palace drawer and forget about them. What John found harder to believe was how unaffected he was by his current physical appearance.

Pretty much everyone who'd ever seen them had loved Sherlock's signature dark curls. They'd been such an integral part of him, and John had believed Sherlock thought the same way. The odd thing was that he didn't seem to miss them. Where once he had run his hands through his hair while he was working, he now massaged his scalp instead, his fingers tracing the harsh outline of the massive scar. As Sherlock was quick to point out, it saved money on shampoo, and saved time combing.

When it was initially pointed out that Sherlock's hair would never grow back on the grafted area, John had suggested a wig, a hat, or no coverage at all. He'd thought Sherlock would spring for one of the former options, but after two years it was evident he'd chosen the last and would stick with it. He bore the massive, heart-shaped scar like a medal of honour, only covering it on a particularly sunny day when the sensitive skin was at higher risk of burning or in the midst of winter when everyone wore hats outside to keep warm. Of course, it would be another story when the rest of it started to grow back, but John told himself that they'd handle that situation only when it actually arose.

Astoundingly, he was never offended when John made light-hearted jokes about it. He responded to the nickname Saint Valentine by pointing out that he was probably below Al Capone and Jack the Ripper on the list of potential saints. The missing fingers were also fair game for jest. However, unlike his scalp, they caused a few problems beyond aesthetics. Sherlock had shifted to being left-handed, but the transition had been so abrupt, John guessed he'd already been somewhat ambidextrous. Probably the result of some experiment he'd conducted on himself when he was bored.

In the grand scheme of things, they restricted him very little. He'd learned to compensate for typing on a computer keyboard, but it hardly mattered since he did most things on his phone with just his thumbs. Of course, there was the violin, which had remained in the closet: both literally and figuratively. As much as John's missed Sherlock's music and knew he missed it too, he knew not to bring it up. Sherlock had lost too much dexterity and flexibility to play anything beyond Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and he would never deign to play something so childish. John considered donating or selling it, but needed Sherlock's permission for that and didn't dare mention the instrument.

However, late-night concerts had been replaced with another hobby the two men could share. John had read aloud to Sherlock quite often in the hospital, during radiation and in his room before he fell asleep. John was shocked one evening when Sherlock waltzed up to him clutching a copy of And Then There Were None. John was confused at first when Sherlock simply thrust the volume into his hands and plopped down in his chair, all the while staring expectantly at John.

What was he supposed to do? Was this a recommendation? Should he sit down and read it? Was it evidence from a new case?

"Sherlock, what do you want me to do with this?" he'd asked.

"Read it," had been his terse reply. John interpreted this as a suggestion that he himself would like the book, so he sat and opened to the first chapter. He'd read about a paragraph when Sherlock interrupted him with a clarification: "Aloud."

"You want me to read it aloud?"

"Yes, didn't I make that clear?"

"Yes, but... why?"

"So we can both get the story at the same time without having to worry about compensating for our difference in reading pace."

"You want to read this book too? Why don't you just read it?"

"I want you to read it. Aloud. To me." John was dumbfounded. He'd known Sherlock had changed, but this was awfully sentimental. It made some sense back in the hospital, preferable entertainment to the mechanical soundtrack of the hospital ward, but why would Sherlock want to listen to him read a book now? Even the greatest mystery novels failed to hold his attention at the best of times. At worst, they were the subject of ridicule, defamation, and subsequent burning.

"Why?" John managed to ask.

Sherlock sighed, apparently dreading having to explain himself. "John, as I'm sure you remember, being in hospital could be quite monotonous. And for much of that time, I wondered why you and the others stayed when I was being so boring. Listening to your voice... it was a reminder that I wasn't alone. It didn't matter what you were saying, just that you were there for me. It'd be nice to have repeated reminders that you're still there."

John felt like he was about to cry. This was as open and emotionally vulnerable as he'd ever seen Sherlock. It was touching. He hadn't realised how much his efforts had helped Sherlock. So he started again at chapter one and read the book aloud. Sherlock leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, listening intently. They read for about half an hour, when Sherlock held up his hand to signal John to stop.

"Thank you," he stated. John placed a marker on the page he'd left off on and closed the book, laying it gently on the table, where it sat until another night when Sherlock brought it to him. This became their new habit: John would read aloud to Sherlock a few evenings a week. They finished And Then There Were None, and moved on to the first in Sue Grafton's alphabetical mystery novels. It reached a point where Sherlock didn't even need to ask John, he'd just lay the book they were currently reading on John's chair. When the doctor went to sit down, the book was waiting for him and he'd read until Sherlock instructed him to stop. It became one of his favourite parts of the day, and he hoped Sherlock felt the same.

A defining moment in their journey came with the final dose of maintenance chemo. Dr. Harrison had him on a dose every four months for two years, and they'd finally reached the end of it. Sherlock was officially in remission. It was a momentous occasion. John had convinced Sherlock to have a small party to celebrate. It was just him, John, Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson, but they'd all had a wonderful time. Molly brought a follow-up card to the one she'd given him at the hospital: another Irish setter on the cover. Sherlock hugged her for that, and her cheeks flushed a deep red.

Sherlock would still be checked routinely to ensure they caught it early if his white cell count spiked suspiciously again, but otherwise he was free of all things cancer-related. Relapse was always a possibility, but both he and John refused to entertain the thought. If it happened, it happened, but they'd worry about that only if it actually did. Instead, they enjoyed every day spent together solving crimes and bickering about who would go get the milk.

Some cancer survivors claim they wouldn't change what happened to them because of all the life lessons the disease had forced them to learn. If given the chance, John would change the past in a heartbeat, but that doesn't mean he didn't learn from it. In fact, he probably learned more in that time than he did in school. The things he learned then are certainly more important than maths or history or grammar.

John Watson learned to treasure every second, because no one knows how many are left. There are so many ways to die in today's world it's frankly a miracle anyone's still alive. John Watson at one point thought he was going to die, wounded in a foreign country. He thought his best friend Sherlock Holmes was going to die, fighting for control against his own body. If there's one thing he'd learned, it's that life is fragile. But life should not be encased in three layers of Bubble Wrap and kept 'this side up.' Life should be tossed around like a hot potato, should nearly slip from one's grip a few times, should be allowed to chip and fade. Because when it finally does shatter, it doesn't matter what it looked like intact. Someone might just come along and turn the pieces into a beautiful mosaic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm probably more proud of that last paragraph than I should be. It's pretty good life advice, if I do say so myself. Also, another huge thank you to everyone who supported this story, I couldn't have done it without you. I hope you'll follow me, if not through all, but at least some of my subsequent works.
> 
> Tentative posting schedule:
> 
> Elie's Epiphany: this goes along with Sympathy for the Devil, so if you've no interest in that, just ignore this
> 
> The Funeral: post-reichenbach, pretty self-explanatory
> 
> Fraternity: certain events from Fragile told from Mycroft's perspective
> 
> Cag Mag: this is the mystery neurological illness that so many of you voted for. The title won't make any sense to you until you read the whole story and I explain where it comes from
> 
> Cash Cab: Baker Street


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